


The Tale of the Courtier

by Guede



Series: The Book of the Green Field [11]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Torture, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the double reign of Ferdinand and Isabella appears to be coming to an end, the royal court seethes with secrets, ruthless intrigue and ever-changing strategic alliances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of the Courtier

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an Alternate World Spain loosely based on the year 1504.

“Fabio Cannavaro? The ambassador from Naples? He seems pleasant enough. Well, since nobody can understand a word he says. Iker tried for a good half-hour while showing him his rooms, and he thinks the man speaks some Aragonese, but the accent is terrible. But he’s very free with his tips—Cannavaro, I mean, of course. And cheerful, or at least Cannavaro smiles often, and his teeth are still good enough that that’s a friendly sight. And he dresses like a diplomat. He’s not got much of a retinue with him, though I suppose that that’s because he hasn’t had time to put one together. He only was in Naples a few months this time.”

“Of course, he could also merely wish to be humble and to avoid showing up his own king,” Andrés reprimanded, his voice as tightly buttoned as his coat. He came up to them with an armful of linens all freshly-hemmed in black, a silent reminder of the precarious state in which the unity of the two kingdoms of Spain currently found itself. “Good morning. Did you wish to speak with Don Josep Guardiola?”

Fernando Morientes lowered his head and pulled at his nose with grave deliberation, then shook his head. “Ah, no, I’ve nothing worth disturbing him about this early in the day. But thank you very much for inquiring, and I hope I’ve not kept you too long from your duties.”

Given that he’d already presented a stance of upholding propriety, Andrés could do little but take the hint to continue about his business. Of course that didn’t keep him from looking coolly at the suppressed amusement in Morientes’ eyes, or from flicking a disapproving glance at Cesc, but it did see him down the hall and out the door. He meant well, but sometimes Andrés could be a little too cautious. If the key to surviving at court was to listen well and listen often, then occasionally _someone_ had to speak, in Cesc’s opinion. And sometimes speaking had the reciprocal effect of inducing speech from others, which was precisely the point.

“So does Cannavaro speak Castilian as well?” Fernando asked, turning back to Cesc. “Because otherwise I think that would be a little…oh, I can understand but some people might take offense, given—”

“I have no idea about him, but I know his doctor does.” Cesc saw Fernando’s brow furrow, then remembered that the other man had been away when Cannavaro had arrived, and had missed the Neapolitan’s official presentation and state dinner. He stepped back to gain a little space, then gestured above his head. “He’s very tall, maybe even taller than you. And very pale. Like milk. But he’s Swiss, and he speaks Castilian and even a little Catalan. I could understand him perfectly.”

The long furrows across Fernando’s forehead reshaped into deep but short arches as he lifted his eyebrows. “Really. Where did he learn Catalan?”

“He says he was an army doctor, and has been all over,” Cesc replied. Then he shrugged, anticipating the next question. “He was only down to ask if he could get hot water sent up every night. So I didn’t have time to ask _whose_ army.”

Fernando snorted, his chin dipping towards his chest. Then he uncrossed his arms and pushed himself off the wall, idly looking up into the thin arched ribs of the vaulted ceiling. “What does he want the water for?”

Cesc shrugged again, and turned his attention to the boots he was supposed to be cleaning. Most of the court’s usual leisure activities had been curtailed out of respect for the ailing Queen, but yesterday a group of noblemen had gotten too restless to bear the interminable waiting and had gone hunting in the countryside. It was hard, sitting about and wondering whether the country would be plunged into civil war after such a long peace, but Cesc privately wished his lord hadn’t gone along with it, and not only because Guardiola had gone and muddied his formal boots in doing so.

“Dry already? I would’ve thought your mouth is one well that would never suffer such a fate.” Another snort escaped Fernando as he impatiently scuffed his foot against the floor. He patted Cesc’s cheek in passing, then laughed off Cesc’s half-hearted attempt to slap away his hand, strolling on down the hall. “Very well, I’ll let it known that the Italian has an odd sort for a doctor. Perhaps that’ll stop the rumors that Ferdinand’s desperate enough to turn to the Italians for their expertise in…matters of health.”

At that Cesc looked up, but the other man had already disappeared through the door at the other end of the hall, opposite to that through which Andrés had passed. For all his good humor, Fernando Morientes had come a very long time ago from the Extremadura, lands once held by the Muslims and now still dangerously close to Portugal, to serve at the Castilian court. He knew the ways of the court very well and wasn’t often in the habit of speaking carelessly, or of failing to live up to his word. And while he moved easily in most circles—the grace of being born well but of having little else—he was most closely connected to the Castilians. Anyway, at this hour in the morning, at this time, he was hardly going about business for the sake of his own interests.

Cesc cast an eye over the boots in his hand, then put them aside for later, which would be most likely after the midday meal. He’d have preferred to spend that time with the other menservants, catching up on all the news as noble after noble came to pay respects to the ailing queen and seize a last chance for securing their interests, but the new Milanese ambassador had just arrived and of course there would be a formal dinner. And his lord would have to attend, and at the very least he should be able to stand up with the rest of them in proper dress. As for what else he might be able to do—well, that would depend on what happened with the Queen. And the King, Cesc reminded himself to add. Ferdinand might be of a Castilian line, but Castilian or not, he still was King of Aragon and the Count of Barcelona. And that would remain true regardless of what happened with Isabella.

At any rate, it wasn’t yet Cesc’s responsibility to opine about such matters, though they might fill his head day and night as they filled everyone else’s. He turned about and knocked softly on the door behind him, then let himself into the antechamber. It only took a glance at the cot in the corner, with its unrumpled sheets, to spur a sigh from him. “Xavi…Andrés is going to have a fit when he comes back.”

“About what?” Andrés was hardly the type to show his satisfaction publicly, but his brows did rise a bit at Cesc’s start. Then he pushed himself around the door and saw the empty cot, and grimaced. “Again? Did you—”

“No. But I wasn’t up here for most of the night, remember? I had to go find where they were taking Guardiola’s clothing and it turned out they’d mixed it up with Iker’s…and I did wash it all again,” Cesc explained, noting the flicker in Andrés’ eyes. Personally he thought that Iker was one of the least dangerous of the Castilians, but Andrés tended to over-worry about such things and what darker meanings they might hold. It was why Guardiola let him see to the work that was less like innocent eavesdropping and more like spying, Cesc supposed. “Just how good is this girl he has, honestly? I need to talk to him about Morientes, and it’s not the first time. Fernando’s always coming by in the morning.”

After closing the door behind him, Andrés went over to the cot and bent down to closely examine it. He felt at the pillow, then over the main mattress. “You could’ve told me about Morientes. I didn’t know—”

“Well, I thought you’d have guessed when you saw him,” Cesc muttered. He looked helplessly about himself, then took a step towards the door to the inner chambers. Then he withdrew, only to have Andrés look sharply at him anyway. “Never mind. Where does she stay?”

“She?” Then Andrés shook his head. He leaned over the bed again, resting his hands on the side and looking almost as if he wished he could lean that hand’s-span farther to put his head down. “Cesc, just stay here till Don Josep wakes up, and then tell him about whatever it is you have to tell about Morientes. It’ll take too long for me to bring Xavi back.”

“But—”

But Andrés had been turning as he’d spoken, and by the time he’d finished, he already had a foot out the door. He went out as silently as he’d come, so that Cesc was left standing there uncertain as to whether he’d actually heard what Andrés had had to say.

He supposed he had, he finally decided. Cesc gazed about another time, then reluctantly seated himself on the unused cot to wait for his lord to wake. Then he got up and went outside, and came back in with the boots. He could clean them while he waited, and if he scattered a bit of dirt by it, then Xavi could clean that up when he returned. After all, _that_ was what Xavi did, and not Cesc.

* * *

Iker shrugged and pushed himself back against the windowsill till he was half-sitting on it. The dark cloth of his clothes blended into the grey stone, as if he numbered among the carvings that decorated the roofs, and the sharp slant of the light across his face gave him a further austere cast. “He has permission, so what can we do?”

“From who?” Raúl asked, closing his eyes. He rested his elbows on the desk and then templed his fingers over his nose, pressing their tips into the inner corners of his eyes. Outside the church-bells were ringing, telling him that dawn was barely an hour old, and already he was tired. “The King?”

“Kings,” Iker quietly corrected. When Raúl looked up, the other man was gazing steadily out the window, discreet even in private. But then, unlike Raúl he had all but grown up at court, set since the beginning to serve quietly against the backdrop of the great lords who stormed in and out of the place. “The pardon was jointly signed, of course.”

Raúl turned sharply before he could control himself. As ill-equipped as he privately felt at times like this, he did stand among those lords, and had a right to show anger. More to the point, he had reason. “Pardon? You said Vieri had permission.”

The other man winced and glanced at Raúl before looking quickly away. He slightly moved his left shoulder, then rolled both back as he sighed quietly. “Permission means a pardon. Otherwise…”

“It could mean a temporary immunity against any charges, which is not…well, clearly it’s not, according to you. A pardon,” Raúl muttered under his breath. Then he put his hands up on the arms of his chair, his elbows bent, and at the window, Iker began to straighten as well.

But instead of rising, Raúl merely stared at the surface of his desk. It had been in his family for generations, the smoothness from use and abuse rather from fine workmanship. No, indeed, it was very much in the style of an earlier, rougher, simpler age, one that was too long in the sun and the dust to care overmuch about where it came to rest at the end of the day, so long as it had a roof and a bed and would last the night. The wood was still sturdy enough, and would unquestioningly support another generation as it struggled with its problems, but otherwise it hadn’t kept up at all with the times.

“I don’t think he’ll be at the state dinner,” Iker said quietly. When Raúl turned to him, the other man had slipped off the sill, but still had one hand on the stone as he brushed down his clothes. He glanced at the window, then frowned and passed one hand over his head, settling some imperfection he’d glimpsed in the glass. “If that helps.”

Raúl pushed himself to one side of his chair, then allowed his arm on the other side to fall into his lap. He looked at Iker, who winced again but who could offer nothing else.

After a last tug to his collar, Iker made a slight movement towards the door, only to step back when Raúl put two fingers to one temple. Then Raúl could no longer look directly at the other man, but he heard Iker’s foot draw across the stone of the floor, slow and uneven. A moment of silence, and then the man’s heel struck decisively at the floor. Iker rapidly crossed the room, his footsteps turning less crisp as they passed onto the rugs.

He paused again at the door, then murmured something and went on into the hall, the sound of his steps sharpening as they struck into stone again. A second set of boots came into the room, paused as the heavy, ill-oiled hinges of the door creaked, and then scuffed across the rug while the tumblers of the lock were still falling into place.

“Christian Vieri has free rein of this place,” Raúl remarked abruptly. He’d spoken a little before he’d had enough breath, and to his ear he sounded raspy.

“The one who rampaged through Madrid and beat your uncles up and down Castilla la Nueva a decade or so ago?”

Raúl jerked his fingers from his head and twisted around, only to find his anger evaporating into a sigh as he saw the teasing glint in Fernando’s eyes. He slumped again, then mustered up enough ire to move his head from the other man’s stretching hand. “ _Yes_. What other Vieri would I be talking about?”

Undeterred, Fernando ruffled his fingers across the top of Raúl’s head, letting the momentum of his saunter pull them along as he came around the chair. “I knew you’d be upset.”

“You knew?” Raúl echoed, straightening up. He pushed away Fernando’s fingers, then grunted irritably as they snapped about to twine around his wrist. “Fernando—”

“Well, Iker was always going to reach you first with it, and if he’d like to deliver the bad news, then who am I to deny him?” Fernando smiled easily but lopsidedly, the tension in one cheek belying the amusement in his eyes. He dragged at Raúl’s hand, and when Raúl resisted, bent down to make up the difference.

Raúl exhaled, tired and unhappy, and for all that he remained still for that press of warmth over the back of his hand. He watched the tips of his fingers, one peeking out from either side of Fernando’s jaw, slacken from their tight inward curl. They straightened till he could just touch the underside of Fernando’s throat, where it began to rise in the apple, and then they snapped down. He pulled back his hand. “You knew.”

“I heard. Iker knew, since he’s got to make the arrangements for Inzaghi’s retinue,” Fernando corrected. The smile still graced his face, but his lips had drawn down over his teeth, and his eyes had darkened. “It’s been a good while, you know. And your family regained all the lands you lost to him. And it wasn’t his army—he was only being paid to lead it.”

“I _know_ , but you should know that the number of years don’t make the slightest…you do and you simply don’t mind it,” Raúl sighed, putting his hands on the chair’s arms again. This time he did rise to his feet, with one arm held across his chest to guard against stepping into Fernando who was barely a hand’s-breadth away. Then Raúl made to turn, only to find a pair of hands caging in his hips. He put his hand on one of them, then shook his head. “If I was really your lord, you’d never dare—”

Fernando snorted, and spun Raúl around, his hands sliding purposefully up Raúl’s back to cup the shoulderblades. One went further, tangling into Raúl’s hair as his lips rounded about Fernando’s tongue, his hand went up to curve over Fernando’s shoulder. He sank into the other man, closing his eyes, drinking in the ease of it. Fingers teased across the back of his neck, feathering under his stiff collar before sweeping out to drag out the shape of a ripple down his spine. The firmness of the touch burned through the layers of cloth as if they were mere gauze.

“Don’t do that,” Fernando murmured, his lips removing themselves from Raúl barely enough for speech. He pushed up the hem of Raúl’s shirt and Raúl shuddered, then pushed at Fernando’s shoulder in warning. The other man let his fingers seek out Raúl’s bare skin, but merely brushed at it before moving them back to the safer territory of Raúl’s hips. “There are other things you could be worrying about besides my bad sense of humor.”

“I see,” Raúl said, his lips quirking. But then he looked up and saw that Fernando was no longer smiling, even close-lipped. He frowned, resting his arms on the other man’s chest. “Then…where were you? Iker would know because of his duties, but I’d think you also would.”

The smile came now, but it was thin and tight, and the glint in Fernando’s eyes was metallic instead of soft. He tilted his head, then ducked forward to kiss the top of Raúl’s left cheekbone. It was an awkward caress, unnaturally hesitant. “Villa’s come to court after all. I was greeting him, since I’m one of the few left who would.”

After a moment, Raúl brushed his hand slowly across Fernando’s breast, smoothing out a wrinkle. He let his fingers lie still, watching how they rose and fell with the other man’s breathing.

“Cannavaro’s settled in as well, and so has his doctor, apparently. He’s found a Swiss who speaks Catalan—”

“Why is he here?” Raúl grimaced at the brusqueness of his tone, but he didn’t offer an apology. Nor did he clarify who he meant.

His hand rose a little higher as Fernando sighed, then stayed there as the other man’s chest sank again. Then it lifted further, till he was touching Fernando’s jaw and Fernando was bent over his fingers, lips just shy of them, lashes lowered too far for Raúl to know what the other man was thinking. “To see Isabella,” Fernando said. “I put him off as best that I could, but I don’t think he was convinced and I have to leave in a moment to warn her household. Especially that groom from Gran Canaria, since he’s never met Villa before. She likes his singing, and lets him tend to her most often these days.”

* * *

David laughed and pushed up his hands, as if he thought he could turn the wind by doing that and so help along the birds. A slight breeze was blowing towards the palace, but the birds had terror driving them along and needed no encouragement to beat their wings as strongly as their frail bodies would allow. They swooped upwards and in the space of a breath, they had disappeared over the walls in a flurry of brilliant color.

“One course down, and fourteen left for tonight,” Xavi said, lowering the empty wicker cage. Then he noticed that a few feathers had drifted down and stuck to his clothes, and put down the cage so he could pick them off.

“Is it going to be that fancy?” One bird drifted back over the wall and David frowned, then stepped forward with a hand raised as if he meant to signal to the tiny speck of color. But then the bird disappeared and David dropped his hand, nodding. “I think she couldn’t sit up for confession two days ago, so…”

They glanced at each other at the same time. Xavi flinched, then continued to brush at his clothing as he looked at a point past David’s left shoulder. The other man had flushed up and ducked his head, and put up a hand as well to the back of his neck. He twisted his fingers into his collar for a while, occasionally looking at Xavi.

Eventually it became clear that, unlike the vast majority of the grooms at court, David wouldn’t speak again until he was spoken to, and Xavi cleared his throat. Perhaps David’s question had been a little indelicate, but they were alone and in a little-used courtyard. And it was an important question. “So far as I’ve heard. The kitchens are working hard enough for a full state dinner, otherwise I never could’ve swiped these from there.”

David glanced at the empty cage, his eyes peering awkwardly past his elbow. He rubbed at his throat and jaw for another moment, then swung himself about and dropped into a crouch next to the cage. If he’d not minded breaking a few of the wicker bars, he likely could have fit into it, he was built so slightly. “You know, we eat these back home. They’re good. I don’t mind it then, but I don’t…I just saw them, and thought it would be a pity. They’re the first things I’ve seen from the Canaries in a while.”

“Well, the idea actually is to put them in alive, and then when you cut the pie, they fly out. The last time they did that, nobody ate them and most of the poor birds starved to death because they couldn’t find the way out,” Xavi commented. He plucked off the last feather, a tiny piece of whitish fluff barely large enough to be seen, and rolled it in with the rest, which he’d balled up in his palm. Then he stooped down and dug a hole in the ground with his boot. “You kept picking up their bodies from the corners.”

The dirt here was hard-packed and full of pebbles, but finally Xavi had made a dent that was deep enough. He flicked the ball of feathers into it, then kicked in the dirt before the wind could tease out the fine little specks. Then he pulled back his foot, but he was a little late in reacting and so his boot-tip tapped David’s forearm in passing.

It left a brown streak of dirt, but David muttered an apology. He glanced up, then gave the dirt over the feathers a quick pat and twisted out of the way and back onto his feet. He moved oddly for a man—not ungracefully, but very much the opposite, and grace was not a virtue a well-born man would shun, anyway. But men of the court normally weren’t so economical in their movements, nor were they so…unstudied. David moved like he had no care for the effect of his movement on others.

“That sounds like a waste,” David said, dusting at his arm.

“I think so, too,” Xavi muttered, though habit made him say it as he turned away. He nudged the cage with his foot, then sighed and leaned back against the wall. To be honest, he hadn’t taken the birds with a mind to free them. That idea had come later, when he and David had stopped so David could toss out his basket of refuse into the pit at the end of the courtyard, and at the time he’d merely needed an excuse. “I think we’ll have to break this apart. It’d look a little odd just sitting on top of the trash.”

David tipped his head, frowning. He put out his own foot and used it to rock the cage, then made a little twist of his wrist. Then he looked up, eyes wide. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean—it’s just a penknife.”

Xavi nodded, having kept his eyes on the flash in David’s hand. He rolled his shoulders a few times to loosen them, then bent down again to tilt the cage towards the other man.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” David said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so clumsy with this.”

“No, you were fine. I’m just a little nervous these days,” Xavi replied, smiling wryly. The wicker in his hands creaked, then abruptly snapped straight as David cut through a binding. He dodged the whippy ends, then rose up on his toes to keep his chin clear of them. “The Queen’s faring worse?”

For all his concerns about his clumsiness, David seemed to have a very good instinct for when he needed to step lightly, and an even better one for when artlessness was most effective. He glanced up in apparently genuine confusion, then made a small ‘o’ with his mouth as his memory stirred. Then he frowned, hissing through his teeth. He leaned back and lifted his hand so Xavi could see the tiny bead of blood that jeweled the end of the thumb, then pressed the thumb into his mouth. With his other hand, he steadied the half-dismantled cage, his fingers moving slowly up and down the wood strips to help the twine binding unravel.

“She was worse at confession,” David finally replied. He paused to lick at his wounded thumb again, then sighed and took hold of the cage with both hands again. “The priest had to call for the doctor. But they say she only needed some rest, and much prayer.”

Xavi listened attentively, but he heard nothing he didn’t already know and furthermore, heard nothing remarkable in the other man’s tone as David related the news. Save perhaps that David seemed very calm in his resignation, which was an uncommon trait in one so young, and particularly in one who came from a colony that was so directly and closely attached to the Queen. “Have you seen her much since then?”

“I don’t think she’ll be receiving the Milanese ambassador herself. Her ladies are all very worried,” David said, head bent. He reached into the cage and inserted his knife between two wicker bars, then sawed at their bindings till they, and suddenly the whole of the cage, sprang apart.

The two of them let go as the wood snapped wildly between them. David seemed to avoid the worst of it, but one wicker twig lashed Xavi hard across the knee and he had to drop onto his hand. He breathed in and out three times, then slowly straightened up and rubbed at the kneecap. Beneath his hose he could feel the flesh warming and knew that he’d uncover a bruise later, but otherwise he was fine.

“Have you met the ambassador before? Do you know what he’s like?” After a moment’s earnest staring, David abruptly dropped his gaze, his cheeks reddening again. He nervously wiped his knife against his belt before slipping it back into his sleeve. “I’m sorry. It’s only I think I’ll be going, and I’ve never been to a state dinner before.”

He’d do very well if he continued as he had been, silent when he had nothing to say and banal when he had nothing he wanted to say to someone. And Xavi almost told the man so, but he stopped himself with a sigh and instead looked up, at the thin clouds fading from gold to white in the sky. As unhelpful as the conversation had been, there was no need for Xavi to be harsh to David, and less call for him to give voice to his bitterness. If David was deliberately obtuse, then he was merely trying to carry out his duties, and if he was only as ill-informed as he seemed, then he was ill-informed and nothing more.

“No, but I’ve heard of him. Inzaghi’s been to England, and then there were rumors about him in France just before Louis tried to invade Italy…but those are rumors,” Xavi said dismissively, seeing the curiosity in David’s eyes. He shrugged and began to bundle together the twigs. “I understand he’s very close to the Duke, but he’s never come to Spain before.”

“Oh, I can take those.” David pulled the twigs from Xavi’s hands, then deftly rolled them into the others, and the whole into a handful, in a quick scooping motion. Then he stood up, shaking the twigs to rid them of the dust. “He’s an odd one to send here, isn’t he?”

Xavi slowly rose, putting one hand against the wall for balance. He moved the shoulder nearest to David in a noncommittal gesture, then looked over to find that David had ceased fiddling with the twigs and was closely watching him. Again came the blush and the duck of the head, and then David half-turned, beginning to blurt something. Then he stopped and rubbed at his jaw, letting his incoherent fragment drift up into the blue sky. He flicked a cautious look at Xavi again, like some hunted animal scenting for the hunters.

“I don’t know,” Xavi said neutrally. Something tickled in his throat and he coughed, then startled himself as he managed to dislodge a barking laugh. He glanced at David and saw the nervous smile flit over the man’s face, then laughed again, a little more deliberately. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll see at the dinner.”

“I’ll look for you?” The uncertain lilt at the end could’ve been due to David’s tone or to the sharp way he pivoted on his heel. He lifted his knee and braced the twigs against it, then looped a piece of twine tightly around them. “You’re going, then?”

“Probably. Don Josep is.” Xavi paused, thinking about that admission, and then decided it’d cost him little. Then he laughed again, amused and frustrated with himself. He took a step around David and David turned towards him so Xavi hesitated. But then he shook his head and went on, till he had his hand on the door handle. “I’ve got to see to him now, actually.”

David nodded, his shoulders sinking a little, his eyes crestfallen. Then he looked up again, his teeth very white behind his smiling lips. “Well, then I’ll see you later. Thanks for the help. I really…I’ve noticed not many people like to tell me where things are, even if it’s just the kitchen trash.”

“I know,” Xavi muttered, and opened the door. It’d been the same for him, the first time he’d come to court. And he’d had his few kindnesses, and had survived till he was old enough to understand how foolish such acts were, and now…now he couldn’t help himself. Andrés would call him a fool and be correct in doing so, but Xavi didn’t regret the sight of songbirds escaping over the wall, or David’s relieved smile. The memory of them stayed bright in the dark halls that occupied most of his day.

* * *

“I don’t know,” David said curtly, finally looking up at the man addressing him. Very tall, very pale, very foreign, very awkward and lost in the dimly-lit hall. Probably he belonged to one of the two ambassadors who’d recently arrived, and if that was the case, then he was very much on the wrong side of the palace, but that hardly gave him the right to look at David as if David knew which was the right side for him.

The man blinked slowly, taken aback. Then, like a dog who only knew the owner who beat it, he cleared his throat again. David looked away, hoping that at least the foreigner would be capable of understanding that. Then again, the man spoke Castilian well enough but didn’t seem to comprehend what David had said, so…David glanced down both ends of the hall, willing one of those numerous and otherwise useless pages to appear and deal with the problem.

No page came, but a familiar silhouette stepped into the doorway at the west end. The foreigner seemed to notice as well, as he’d stopped clearing his throat and had turned to look that way. He took a step forward that was far too short for his gangling legs, then drew back half of that so in sum, he’d not even advanced from the one side of David to the other. The fingers of David’s hand slowly curled and uncurled as he resisted the impulse to push along the man.

Fortunately, Fernando quickly dispensed with whatever was keeping him and came up the hall. He noticed David immediately and nodded, but approached the foreigner first, a polite smile on his face.

“I apologize, but I think I’m lost,” the foreigner said hurriedly. He made a clumsy bow, and one that was far deeper than Fernando’s rank honestly warranted. “Can you tell me the way back to the…the…”

“Are you the doctor with Don Fabio Cannavaro?” When the other man nodded, looking surprised, Fernando’s smile warmed a little. “Your Castilian is quite good. You know, if your medical skill is as—”

“I wouldn’t pretend to know very much. I do the best I can, and luckily Signore Cannavaro—” the man slipped briefly into Italian for the title “—finds my work satisfactory so far. But I doubt I know as much as the many fine doctors treating Queen Isabella.”

Fernando’s brows arched, though he merely nodded. He’d only been making conversation, in the flowery, over-complimentary way of a diplomat, but he seemed to find the man’s hasty humility intriguing. To David it merely seemed to be nerves.

“I was trying to find my way back from the kitchens, and I suppose I took a wrong turn,” the man continued, his phrasing a little less formal. “If you’d just point out the way, I’ll be on my way.”

“You aren’t too far off. Your chambers are down this hall, and then left at the tapestry of El Cid, and left again at the staircase,” Fernando replied. He turned to point, then casually shifted so his arm blocked the foreigner’s start forward. “I’m Fernando Morientes, one of the royal secretaries. If you’re ever lost again, you can ask for me.”

The man stared at Fernando’s hand rather hard. Then he began to look up as Fernando withdrew it, only to glance down again at the movement, as if he’d thought Fernando had been offering it for a shake. He seemed worried enough, with the deep furrows in his brow. “Philippe. Philippe Senderos. Thank you.”

Then he finally walked away, and David released the sigh of disgust he’d been holding in for the whole of the exchange. He looked at Fernando, who smiled as brightly as a girl with a new festival dress, then rolled his eyes. “And is that what you call court intrigue? Flattering some Italian’s doctor?”

Fernando made a clicking noise with his tongue, then laughed. He cut it short very quickly, wincing a bit as it echoed a good deal more than he obviously liked, but no one came running out to reprimand them. “David Villa, latter-day Cynic.”

“Charm doesn’t work on me. You know that,” David snorted, resettling himself against the wall. He rubbed at his jaw, looking at the heavy doors beside him.

“I know, but I thought that was because you were too intelligent for it. David, I already told you you’ll not be able to get a private hearing. I’m having trouble enough getting in a written request—”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” David looked up at Fernando, who merely returned the gaze with no little sympathy but far more resignation, to the point that David could barely muster annoyance at the man’s pity. He turned away, pressing the heel of his hand into his thigh. “Anyway, writing to some idiot with delusions of king-making won’t do anything but waste paper. That’s why I need a hearing.”

After a long moment, Fernando tipped his head to the side and covered most of his face with his hand. His fingers pushed the skin back from his temples, then scraped back through his hair as he lifted his head. “David. The Queen is very _ill_ , may God have mercy on her.”

“I know that. That’s why I made the trip now,” David muttered, digging his hand harder into his leg. Then he pulled it away and let out a frustrated exhale, staring about the hall. “I… _need_ this. I need it, Fernando. So—”

“I’m seeing what I can do,” Fernando said lowly, looking steadily at David. He came a little closer. “But you have to understand that it’s difficult, given her medical problems. The doctors insist that she not be subjected to anything stressful.”

David eventually wrenched his eyes from the other man, just in time to notice that he’d half-raised his hand towards Fernando. He moved that away, back towards himself, and then put it behind his back to make certain of it. Not so much time had passed that he’d forgotten what Fernando was like—and even less since they’d parted, and Fernando had shown where his true loyalties lay. “Does Raúl speak often with her?”

“For the sake of the Virgin, David,” Fernando said after a disbelieving pause. “She’s so ill sometimes she can’t take confession. This is not like—”

“No, I know what it’s like. This isn’t my first time at court, and I’ve learned I don’t need your _help_ ,” David snapped, pushing himself off the wall. He swerved clear of Fernando’s grasping hand, then took two steps before he realized he was heading in the direction opposite of his rooms.

So he turned around and threw himself that way, aware that Fernando was still trying pretend things could be smoothed over. He attempted to keep an eye on Fernando without actually looking at him, and so his shoulder struck the chest before David could avoid the man who’d suddenly appeared before him.

Actually, he was little more than a youth, and a slight, short one at that, nearly falling as he stumbled backwards. David glimpsed stunned eyes before they turned dazedly upward. He’d recovered a good deal quicker and he thrust out his arm under the other man’s outstretched arm, then seized the opposite shoulder as the man’s weight came down on his arm. Then he pulled the other man to his feet and stepped back. “Have a little care for others, would you?” David said.

The man’s eyes flicked up, then dropped without focusing on David as he coughed. His hand flew to his chest, rubbing from there up to his throat. He looked up again and this time his eyes fixed on David’s face: they were very dark, like chips of jet, and had an unusual shape, being somewhat narrower than was commonplace even at their widest. They suited the cheekbones, which were delicate and high, but again had an uncommon angularity to them.

“Oh,” the man said. “I didn’t see you. I’m sorry.”

Then the man turned, and straightened as he did. The top of his head came to about David’s eyebrows. It had a cap of black-brown hair with a slightly coarse-looking texture, which put David to mind of the roughness the fur of wild animals in the fall and spring, when their coats changed. David blinked, and then found himself looking at a cheek. His gaze moved and he found that the man had turned again. To laugh, showing teeth as white and perfect as small pearls.

“All right, Fernando.” The man made a bow that wasn’t particularly neat or deep, but the flow of his movement drew the eye with it, as naturally as a drop of water would seek the quickest way to the earth.

David stumbled, then shook himself fully out of his distracted state and pushed Fernando’s hand off his shoulder. Then he looked back, but the other man had already disappeared into the queen’s chambers. He tugged at his clothes, slanting an irritated look at Fernando.

“You can look like that at me, but leave the grooms and the pages alone,” Fernando said. He stared down at David, sober and serious, the line of his jaw uncharacteristically tense. Then he twisted away and the upward quirk of his mouth presented itself to David. “Besides, poor Silva’s only come a few months ago from the Canaries to serve the Queen. He’s enough to handle without your temper added to it.”

“Silva?” David glanced at the shut doors again. His shoulder hurt, he slowly realized, and he put his hand up over it. “That’s his name?”

“No, it’s David, like yours. David Josué Jiménez Silva. He’s a nice boy, gets along with everyone. The Queen likes him. I like him.” Fernando pushed at David’s shoulder, the sore one, and then looked curious instead of amused or alarmed when David spun on him, but failed to snap as well. “Don’t even think about it. I like you too, but I won’t excuse that sort of meddling, and it has nothing to do with Raúl. Silva doesn’t deserve it.”

As was usual when Raúl’s name came up, David’s tongue curled tight against the roof of his mouth, knotting itself around a few choice words. Then it uncurled, but oddly enough, only to deliver a dismissive snort, and even that lacked any real force. David massaged his shoulder, looking at Fernando without honestly paying attention to the man. Then he shrugged, and took his hand down, and turned his feet towards his rooms without another word.

He went quite far in that distracted state, and it took another foolish inquiry to shake David out of it. He looked up, then reluctantly swallowed down his first reply. “Yes, but she’s not taking visitors. She’s not _well_ , as you may have heard.”

The Milanese ambassador looked as opaquely at David as he had when they’d come across each other in the stables last night, and his famous companion had put his horse into the stall meant for David’s, then had laughed in David’s face when David had pointedly it led back out. He nodded, the gaze of his flat black eyes unblinking. “So I understand.” His Spanish was heavily-accented. “Thank you. Did a tall, pale-skinned man with a shaved head pass this way?”

“I don’t know,” David curtly replied, and then he went on before he could be asked another question. He’d regained his head, and he had several matters to consider. If Inzaghi preferred to keep company with former mercenaries, then he most likely could find his way about without any help, and even if he couldn’t, showing him the right way was not what David had come to do.

* * *

Andrés pressed his lips together and concentrated on properly fluffing the pillows. Once he’d finished with that, he moved on to folding the corners of the bedsheets beneath the mattress, and then he turned around to gather up the quilts from the floor. But they weren’t where he’d left them, and he was at a loss before he noticed that one was hanging off to the side. He followed it up to find the quilts bundled in Xavi’s arms, and then looked higher to Xavi’s half-exasperated, half-apologetic expression.

After a moment, Andrés shook his head and held out his arms, and Xavi obligingly tossed half the quilts into them. Then they moved to opposite sides of the bed, stretching the blankets between them.

“I wasn’t absent for that long, and Cesc was here while I wasn’t,” Xavi pointed out. He briefly disappeared under the bed, pulling the quilts taut. His hand slid back over the edge, and then he stood up. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t that you were absent, it was that we didn’t know where you were.” Andrés folded the tops of the quilts over his hand, then leaned over the bed to ensure that the fold was even. Then he looked up as something thudded in the next room, but no call came and so Andrés turned. He glimpsed Xavi’s expression and a sudden, strangely strong urge to throw the quilts into the other man’s face came over him.

Of course he didn’t succumb to it, but he needed some effort to suppress it and likely that showed on his face as he finished spreading his half of the blankets. Another thud distracted both of them, and Xavi went over to the door while Andrés absentmindedly tugged at the bed’s drapes, watching the other man peer into the next room. After a quick, muffled exchange, Xavi withdrew and turned with an exasperated flick of the head. His eyes went to Andrés, who normally would have nodded in sympathy, but today Andrés looked away.

Xavi stayed at the door another moment, then came around the bed as Andrés walked away from it towards the wardrobe. The other man started to speak, but faltered when Andrés ignored him to open the wardrobe’s doors. Then Xavi put his hand on the nearest—Andrés plunged his arms into the wardrobe, sifting between the various articles of clothing stored in its shelves.

“You knew where I was,” Xavi finally said, his tone a touch acerbic.

After a futile attempt to concentrate on the different shirts before him, Andrés sighed and put his head against the edge of the closest shelf. He closed his eyes. “I know. And that’s why I was so—you’re lucky that Cesc hasn’t noticed yet. You know what he’d…Xavi, could you…not do this?”

“Do what?” The door creaked as Xavi pushed it back and forth. Then he shoved it out of the way and reached into the wardrobe, rooting out Andrés’ wrist. He pulled it out before sorting through the garments himself and picking out a shirt of pale pea-green. “I am supposed to make acquaintances, and Don Josep—”

“Has no idea whose acquaintance you’re actually making,” Andrés muttered. He pivoted on his heel, still leaning against the wardrobe, and rubbed his hand over his brow. “It’s not like the Inquisition isn’t here, too, and hasn’t forgotten the heavenly wrath visited on Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Xavi snorted. “Don’t tell me that last week’s sermon is what concerns you.”

“No, what concerns me is that you’re…” The rest blurred from Andrés’ mind as his annoyance flared into true anger, and he pushed himself sharply from the wardrobe. Then he whirled about, staring incredulously at the other man. “I don’t even _understand_.”

Something in Xavi’s eyes hardened, turning them as flat and glassy as cannon-metal. But then he stepped back, his chin lifting a little, and the glass broke to show a kind of sympathy with Andrés, as if the other man didn’t quite understand himself. “Have you heard from Anita recently?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Andrés snapped.

“I’m not.” Xavi’s reply was equally harsh.

They gazed at each other for a while, each seeing no way forward but unwilling to retreat. But neither of them wanted to leave it there either, not with how long they’d known each other, and so the excuse of a fit of anger was out of the question as well.

In the end Andrés dropped his gaze first. He looked at the shirt in Xavi’s hands, then looked again, frowning. Then he reached for it, but only to flick at the heavily embroidered cloth. “Where on earth did he find this one?”

“I don’t…oh, no, I think it was when we went back for the last _Cortes_. It was a present from the Puyols, I think?” Xavi hefted the cloth, letting the light shine fully on its garish colors. Then he quickly folded it up and turned to put it back in the wardrobe, at the very bottom of one pile. “It’s not a very proper thing to think, but I have to confess that I’m glad the Queen’s illness means we can’t wear anything bright.”

Their lord was a very good man, very honest and generous, and one who cared as much about his people as about his family fortune, but Don Josep did have some unfortunate traits, and among them was an apparent numbness to color. Not blindness, for he could distinguish shades as well as any man. He simply couldn’t seem to draw from that a sense of what looked well together, and despite the combined efforts of his household, he still managed the occasional disaster.

But not today: Xavi drew out another, much more appropriate shirt, and after Andrés had nodded approvingly, slung it over his shoulder. He picked out matching hose, then closed up the wardrobe as Andrés stepped over to a chest to find a suitable robe to go over them. “Andrés. It’s only talk, nothing more. Don’t read too much into it, or I’ll be out of a job.”

After a moment, Andrés confined himself to shaking his head. And even then, he was leaning so far into the chest that likely it wasn’t visible to the other man, and it was only because they’d known each other so long, that Andrés couldn’t help trusting Xavi against his better instincts. Of course back then Xavi had been not only kind but perceptive as well, coming across Andrés in that great hall when he’d first come to join the household and had been waiting for his introduction to Don Josep. He’d not immediately introduced himself, but had struck up a conversation with Andrés till the stiffness had only been in Andrés’ clothes, and then had looked faintly embarrassed when Guardiola had finally come out and made Andrés realize who Xavi was.

Now…Andrés bit his lip, looking at the layers of robes interleaved with tissue. Then he breathed in deeply, and lifted out the topmost one. He tilted his head as something clicked and then the left side of the room brightened: Xavi lighting a candle off a flint.

“So what was Morientes about?” Xavi asked. “Cesc seemed excited.”

“Cannavaro. Morientes was asking about him, apparently, and Cesc’s run into the ambassador’s personal doctor in the kitchens and it all sounded like a lot of gossip to me. But it’s Morientes, so I don’t know,” Andrés replied. He began to tease out one robe, but pushed it back when he saw the heavy gold cord on it. Perhaps Isabella would see out this illness, but it was unwise to bet on felicity before it occurred.

And anyway, it was uncertain whether her survival would be felicitous where Barcelona was concerned. Castilian strength had always proved deleterious to them and Isabella had certainly been an example of that, even if her death would plunge the country into turmoil after many years of—stability. Something of those difficult calculations was echoed in the pensive way Xavi regarded the candle he’d just lit, his hand with the flint still raised by it. Then he looked over, and arched his brow when he found Andrés watching him so closely.

“Well?” Andrés asked.

“Well, Naples is complicated. It always is—Italy’s never simple.” A trace of frustration entered Xavi’s voice as he turned away. He put the flint back in its box and shut the lid, then walked over to slide the box onto a shelf. “So send Cesc to loiter around Cannavaro’s chambers, and I’ll see about Morientes.”

Andrés snorted before he could help himself, and then busied himself with selecting one of the robes to avoid the look he knew Xavi was directing towards him. “Are you going to make friends with him now?”

He spoke a little more seriously than he’d intended, with the effect of sounding sarcastic instead of amused. Then he compounded the error by not lifting his head immediately, but instead staring at the robe in his hand. Once Andrés had finally shaken the nonsense from his head and had shut the chest, Xavi had already put his hand on the knob of the door.

“Probably not, but at any rate, I’ll be back well before dinner. And if you need me, I think you know where to start looking,” Xavi said without turning. He twisted the knob, then hesitated, his head slightly inclined. Then he straightened and went out into the other room.

Too late, Andrés turned towards the other man. He remained standing with his mouth partly open, watching the door drift towards its frame. Then he shook himself again, feeling the edge of frustration cut at him again and knowing full well that he deserved it. He laid the robe out on the bed, where Xavi had left the shirt and hose, and then went over to the door. After another moment, Andrés pulled it completely shut.

* * *

Senderos looked blankly at Iker, then inhaled sharply as comprehension slowly filtered into his eyes. He shook his head, his skin showing his chagrined flush quite well. “Oh, no, it’s—I was asking out of curiosity. Because what I do—it’s a bit like being a cook sometimes. If you don’t know how to make the patient swallow the medicine, then even the Philosopher’s Stone is useless. But if I’ve been too—too forward, or—I apologize. I never meant to trouble you, and of course I’ll just…this was my own initiative, not Signore Cannavaro’s.”

While his Castilian was excellent to the point that it even carried a trace of a Madrid accent, the man’s anxiety fragmented his words so badly that understanding him was nearly as difficult as making out his master’s thick accent. It took Iker several moments merely to determine the literal meaning of Senderos’ words, and then a little longer to guess at the underlying intent. When he finally had it all, Iker had become so distracted that he briefly forgot his composure and made a triumphant sound in his throat.

With Senderos still standing there, Iker was quickly reminded of the need for discretion. He straightened up, coughing in belated excuse, then waved his hand. “No, no offense taken. You are an invited guest of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, and of course we would like to do all that we can to make your stay as pleasant as possible. The kitchens are busy right now, as there’s the dinner—”

“I apologize for asking,” Senderos said again, the words scrambling out of his mouth. He tipped heavily onto his trailing foot, then jerked back and dropped his head when Iker made to stop him. “I wasn’t think—”

“—but afterward I can speak with the women in the kitchen and I’m certain that they wouldn’t mind speaking with you. We have some very famous cooks and herbalists here, and are very proud of them,” Iker determinedly finished over the other man’s dying stutter. He lowered his arm and stepped back, waiting, but all that greeted him was an awkward silence.

Iker hesitated, then began to speak just as Senderos began something that sounded like a thanks, and both of them stopped themselves. They looked at each other, Senderos’ shoulders hunching as if they wished to overtake the man’s head, and Iker suppressed a sigh. He’d dealt with many difficult personalities during his time as court chamberlain, but admittedly none such as this. But then, Senderos so far hadn’t been difficult so much as—overly retiring. It was somewhat hard to believe that he’d gained a position as high as personal doctor to Don Fabio Cannavaro.

In the end, Iker cleared his throat, then formally thanked Senderos for the request and wished him well for the evening. If not particularly coherent, Senderos did at least seem perceptive, for he in turn took his leave and promptly exited.

Once the other man had departed, Iker indulged in a silent sigh of relief that the matter had been so simple. Of course, he couldn’t be so careless as to not ask himself why an Italian’s doctor would be interested in the royal kitchens, but Senderos’ curiosity there could be controlled easily enough. Besides, with Ferdinand’s power in Castile depending so much on the survival of his wife, Iker doubted that the Aragonese King would be importing poisoners. That was just as well, since the current uncertainty surrounding the court was dangerous enough with the addition of the Milanese ambassador. Milan’s duke had been playing one great king off another for years now, with truly astounding success, and where his diplomacy hadn’t been effective, he’d been able to defend himself courtesy of some exceptional generals. But he was aging and both his sons were still unmarried, and so as with Spain, the future of his Duchy was in doubt.

Milan did already have significant trade relations with both Castile and Aragon, so it was possible that Inzaghi was merely here to protect those in the event of—Iker shied away from the thought, and briskly set about reviewing the seating plans for Inzaghi’s state dinner, as he’d been doing when Senderos had been shown in to him. Of course that was possible, but unlikely, given that Milan had already had several representatives in Spain to oversee those, yet had sent a new man to the Queen’s bedside instead of relying of any of them. All of which could make the evening’s dinner, which was already a complicated matter to handle in light of the Queen’s confinement, problematic in a number of ways that Iker privately wished he didn’t have to handle. He had a good deal on his hands without having Milan insinuate itself into them as well.

When yet another knock came at his door, Iker nearly threw those overburdened hands. As it was, he needed to press them against the top of his desk and breathe slowly in and out. Then he pushed himself out of his chair, and took another breath, and then he went to the door.

Once he’d opened it, Iker found himself confronted with a large, cloth-wrapped bundle that was steaming with delicious smells. Then it swung down, and Xavi nodded apologetically as Iker stepped back to let him inside. “Sorry for bothering you, but I found two serving-women in the hall quarreling over who would have to bring you your lunch, and I thought I’d spare them both the trouble.”

“Oh.” A little embarrassed—he tried to treat the servants decently, knowing as he did how reliant the court was on them and, more importantly, how ever-present they were—Iker reflexively glanced into the hall. But he saw nobody, so he reluctantly shut the door and turned around. “Well, thank you. I hadn’t noticed the…”

Xavi had reached towards Iker’s desk, upon which the seating plans still lay uncovered. They would be sent out in a moment anyway and weren’t particularly important, but Iker still grimaced at the unintentional carelessness. It seemed that the other man sensed that, since he swiveled back so quickly that possibly he hadn’t even taken in the papers. Then Xavi set down the bundle on a sideboard between them. “It was on my way,” he shrugged. He deftly picked apart the knotted top, then slid the muslin cloth out from around the plate inside as Iker came forward. “I can see why they were arguing over it, though.”

Iker looked up, his hand halfway to the hunk of cheese on the edge of the plate. Then he winced again, realizing exactly what Xavi must have seen at the door.

“Is it the dinner tonight?” Xavi asked, tone warm with amusement. “I haven’t been running into as many loitering pages and ladies as usual. I suppose you’re keeping them busy.”

“I’ll be very happy if the evening passes peacefully.” The plate contained cheese, bread, and a small lidded metal tin, which nearly seared off the tips of Iker’s fingers when he touched its side. He hissed and pressed his fingertips to his mouth to cool them, then gingerly picked up the tin’s top: stew, a rich venison from the smell of it. “Is this what Don Josep and the rest of them brought back yesterday?”

Xavi didn’t immediately answer, and when he did, he’d turned slightly so Iker was facing his profile. “Don Josep did feel that, given the sad nature of the court at the moment, his takings were better-used to provide some good nourishment and cheer for others instead of for only himself.”

“I wasn’t criticizing, Xavi. It’s a little premature to behave as if our Queen’s already dead, despite what the more conservative ones would hold,” Iker said, mumbling slightly as he’d been unable to resist the bread. It was still a bit warm inside and its crust was wonderfully crunchy, even though that inevitably sprinkled him with flakes of it. “Give my thanks to Don Josep, then. On the other hand, I wouldn’t suggest he make a habit—”

“Of course not,” the other man agreed. He stayed a little withdrawn but made no move towards the door. When Iker belatedly offered him a share, Xavi refused and leaned against the sideboard. He pursed his lips, his brows drawing down and then arching. “Are the doctors more optimistic?”

Iker wiped his fingers slowly across his lips, then gazed at the plate. His stomach clenched on him and he absently shifted his hip, trying to settle it. Then he glanced aside, spotting the muslin in Xavi’s hand. He held out his hand and after a moment, the other man gave it to him so he could wipe his hand. Then Iker folded up the cloth and laid it beside the plate before breaking off a piece of bread to dip in the stew. “The doctors are doctors. You can imagine.”

“So they’re not any better with you, then.” Head tilted, Xavi allowed a flicker of ironic sympathy to touch his lips. “I do run into them occasionally, especially in the kitchens. Actually, I hear Cannavaro’s doctor was down there as well.”

After a moment, Iker raised the soaked bread to his mouth. He chewed the morsel slowly as he regarded Xavi, who didn’t seem particularly interested beyond idle curiosity. It was possible Senderos had been wandering about for a good while. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been down there much, with the dinner…you’ll be getting the seating soon, by the way. Not now, but…”

“All right, I’ll make sure Cesc’s there to take it,” Xavi said agreeably. Then he pushed himself off the sideboard, turning more serious. “Iker, is there any sort of concern or rumor you’ve heard about Cannavaro? I’ve heard he had some difficulty with communicating, and given how trying things already are, I wouldn’t like to see any sort of accidental misunderstanding…”

“Have you talked with him? Did he mention something?” Startled, Iker at first spoke with his mouth still half-full of food. Then he hastily swallowed, only to have to hold very still for a moment to forestall a choke. When his throat had loosened, he looked up at the other man. “He seemed very well when I left him, though yes, he’s difficult to understand.”

Oddly enough, Xavi seemed at a loss for words. He lifted his hand, then put it down as he shook his head and slid past Iker towards the door. “No. No, I haven’t seen him yet and neither has Don Josep. It’s only that Cesc mentioned he’d heard a few things and as a fellow subject of our honored King Ferdinand, I wanted to put a rest to them before they amounted to something that would attract attention.”

“Oh. Well, no, I haven’t, but thank you for bringing it up. I’ll listen more closely,” Iker finally said.

By then Xavi had recovered completely, and he and Iker traded a few more inconsequential words before he finally took his leave. For several minutes afterward, Iker stood by the door and considered the brief meeting, and when he finally sat down at his desk, he did so only because the seating did need to go out, and not because he’d settled his mind on the other matter.

* * *

For all the various concerns and fears that were seething about the court, the state dinner for the Milanese ambassador was proving a rather boring affair. A large part of that was due to the ambassador himself, who seemed to be a singularly taciturn and colorless man, speaking just enough to skirt the edge of politeness and then apparently content to eat in silence. Even for Isabella’s court, he was rather ascetic in his tastes.

Another factor was the absence of both the Queen and the King. Isabella was too ill, and Ferdinand had been called away to deal with an urgent matter in Aragon a few days before, so both were represented by proxies who, at least to Fernando’s eye, seemed curiously unable to grasp the idea that Inzaghi didn’t seem very offended by the inadvertent slight. In truth it was a little puzzling to Fernando as well, but he had spent some time in England during the marriage negotiations for the Infanta Catalina and Prince Arthur, and he knew in some other countries the rulers had no qualms about treating ambassadors poorly if they wished. He’d heard in Italy it was almost a matter of course, given the constant strife in that land.

Would that Spain wouldn’t return to a similar state, Fernando fervently prayed, bowing his head. Then he suppressed a sigh and leaned back in his seat, attempting to not glance at the nearest clock. Even the rarity of having the women dine with them—a concession to the laxer customs of other courts, given the dinner was for the representative of one—wasn’t lightening the dull atmosphere, and they were only on the first of the main courses.

Fernando could probably excuse himself without difficulty, but Raúl had to stay to the very end, as a noble with royal blood in his veins, and therefore one of the de facto Castilian leaders in Isabella’s absence. He was seated much closer to the ambassador than Fernando, but looked decidedly unimpressed about it. In fact, he was attempting as little conversation as Inzaghi, though at least Raúl was producing a smile from time to time so the casual onlooker wouldn’t think him too rude. That was surprising, since civil war would be inevitable if Ferdinand attempted to take Castile for himself after Isabella’s death and in the past, the King of Aragon had allied himself with Milan and its superb generals. Lately relations had been a little cooler, thanks to Ferdinand’s successful wrenching away of Naples from the French, so if there was any time for Castile to lure away Milan, now would be it.

Raúl did dislike such diplomatic treachery and preferred to leave it in the hands of others whenever possible, but at the end of the day, he would do whatever was necessary to preserve his house. Then again, it wasn’t quite the end of the day yet, and just as that thought crossed Fernando’s mind, Raúl leaned across to inquire something of Inzaghi. The Italian responded without any particular emotion, and while Raúl continued to pursue whatever point he was making, his fingers were circling the stem of his goblet in a manner that, to Fernando, bespoke extreme frustration.

So Fernando stayed, thinking he might as well watch and by that avoid having to pry the cause of that frustration out of Raúl later. And he did keep an eye on the pair for a while, but watching was as painful as Raúl was likely finding the conversation to be, and eventually Fernando’s gaze drifted. This dinner was so uninteresting he almost wished Vieri had chosen to attend, and had at least presented the court with that provocation. Come to think of it, he wondered where the man had gone instead; Raúl’s family was powerful but it hardly exerted exclusive power, even up north in Madrid, and many people would be happy to buy the man a drink for his exploits…over fifteen years ago. Well, if he was that old, perhaps he was napping.

Fernando frowned, then half-turned as the light touch on his arm came again. Then he grinned and slid back his chair so David Silva wouldn’t have to twist past his neighbor to speak to him. “Lose your way back to your seat?”

“No,” Silva said, nose wrinkling in offense. But he was generally a good-natured youth and didn’t hold the grudge past his next breath, leaning against the back of Fernando’s chair. His eyes were still dancing with excitement, even after so many interminable courses. “But I did need to stretch my legs. Also, I wanted to know if we can have the _vihuela_ -player up to the queen’s chambers later. He’s good and I think the queen will like his playing.”

The man in question had been softly playing in one corner since the beginning of the dinner, and later on he was supposed to sing as well. He was a newcomer, and rather talented, though the intent expression on his face was a little too close to a scowl for Fernando’s taste. “Probably. You should ask Iker, really, but I’ll do it since you’re so shy. Do you want me to talk to Victor, too?”

Silva prodded Fernando’s elbow, though at the same time he was clearly relieved. As far as Fernando knew, Silva hadn’t offended Iker—actually, it was difficult to see the youth offending anyone short of the most hatred-filled fanatic—but perhaps he’d come across Iker when the man’s temper had been a bit frayed. “Thank you. Victor? Is that his name?” Silva asked.

“The _vihuela_ -player?” I think so. He’s Catalan, by the way,” Fernando said, looking across the room again. He’d also turned so he could speak more quietly to Silva, but hadn’t accounted for that, and so his gaze fell not on the musician but on Villa. The other man was staring rather hard at Fernando. “If that’s of any concern.”

Fernando had spoken absentmindedly, startled by Villa’s intense look, and so he didn’t immediately notice Silva’s silence. When he did turn, Silva had just pulled one hand from his freshly-ruffled hair. Then the youth grimaced and put his hand back to smooth that down. “I think it’ll be fine. It’ll—it’s music.”

“All right,” Fernando replied, still somewhat distracted. He pulled himself up as Silva moved away and looked back across the room, only to find that Villa was no longer staring at him. When Fernando followed the stare, he ended on Silva’s retreating back.

He looked again at Villa, then at Silva. Then he sank back in his chair, only to start up as a servant whispered in warning. He pushed in his chair and let the servant serve him the next course, but continued to watch Villa over the servant’s busy arms till he was certain. An odd itch began under Fernando’s skin, and after some thought, he identified its source as…he was offended, surprisingly enough.

Not very much, and almost as soon as Fernando had put his finger on it, it dissolved into a sense of relief. He did like Villa—he liked the man a good deal, and if Fernando ever dared stop to consider very deeply everything that he liked, he knew Villa was one that would cause him trouble. But Fernando wouldn’t stop, because he’d learned long ago the dangers of considering such a fragile matter so deeply, and because he’d known for just as long where, at the end of the day, he would lie. And for whom.

So he was not offended, though he was, till the end of dinner, a little regretful and sorry for the other man. For David Villa never stopped either, but his flaw was that he should have, because he took in everything too deeply.

* * *

“Oh,” David said, stepping back. His hand brushed the wall and he pressed his palm to it, steadying himself.

The last course had finally been served, but his stomach had filled up long before that—the valets hadn’t been lying about the incredible amount of food—and so David had excused himself to make a trip to the privy. He’d been about to pull open a side-door and slip back into the hall when he’d realized somebody was standing in the shadows by the door.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said the man. He rubbed his hand over his head, which David had at first thought was shaven but now saw did have some hair, though it was extremely close-cropped. Barely more than fuzz, to be honest. “I was only…well, I’m lost, and I heard the music.”

He couldn’t be from anywhere…well, David hadn’t been to very many places in Spain, but he didn’t think the man was from anywhere in Spain, even though his Castilian accent was better than David’s. Then David remembered something one of the other menservants had said, and made a small triumphant noise. Of course he promptly winced, but the other man didn’t seem to notice, nor did he even betray any amusement at David’s lack of composure. In all honesty, he still looked about to flee from David.

“Are you the Italian doctor?” David asked. He stepped away from the wall, absently tugging at his clothing. His collar had gotten turned the wrong way about and he’d only now realized that that was why it was rubbing so irritatingly against the underside of his chin.

The man stared for a moment as if he didn’t understand David, but then his eyes cleared and he nodded before David could venture a clarification. He smiled a little bit, and while it did much to improve his face—he was not ugly, but he would never attract attention for that part of him, and David wasn’t as particular about that as some of the others were—it did nothing to dissolve the nervous tension that continued to vibrate from him, as if he were an over-tuned instrument string. “I suppose you could call me that. I’m not Italian, though.”

“Oh. Oh, no, I meant…” David felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment again as he gestured.

“No, I am serving Signore Cannavaro, and I’ve been in Italy long enough that you wouldn’t be wrong to call me Italian,” the man—Senderos, that was his name. Senderos said, looking very kindly at David. “I didn’t take offense.”

“Oh, thank you,” David hurriedly replied. He pulled at his collar, though he’d already turned it correctly, searching frantically for something intelligent to say. “So—so where were you trying to go? This is where the dinner is. For the Milanese ambassador.”

It was rather dark in the hall, but it seemed to David that Senderos tensed slightly, and not quite because he’d become more nervous. The glance he gave the door was furtive, but then he stepped firmly enough away from it, shaking his head. “No, I wasn’t invited, so I don’t think it would be polite…but Signore Cannavaro’s suite is somewhere near here, isn’t it? I went out into the town earlier and then forgot my way back.”

“Well, you are on the right side of the palace.” Although David tried as best he could to speak delicately, he clearly hadn’t done so well enough from the way Senderos winced. He put out his hand without thinking, then withdrew it when the other man looked sharply up. “It’s all right. To be honest, I still don’t have my bearings all the time, and I’ve been here for two months now.”

“Where are you from?” Senderos asked. He turned further from the door, moving into the flickering rectangles of torchlight that spilled in from the narrow windows. He was even taller than he seemed at first, since when he stood he carried his head oddly low, but raised it when he walked. And he was older than David had thought, both from seeing him and from what the other menservants had said. He had crow’s feet by his eyes and a roughness to his skin that its paleness only partially hid.

Eventually David realized he was staring, and gave himself a shake. “From Gran Canaria,” he said. “It’s very far west of Spain, in the—”

“Closer to Africa, in a group of islands. I’ve heard of it before.” Senderos spoke directly but not condescendingly, not implying at all that David had mis-stepped again. In fact, he seemed a little chagrined at the awkward silence that resulted. “But I’ve never met anyone from there.”

“I’m impressed you’ve already heard of it. Even here, a lot of people don’t seem to have, and when it’s a special interest of Queen Isabella’s.” David smiled to reassure the other man, then moved back from the door as it rattled. Both he and Senderos watched it a little nervously, but when nothing else happened, David assumed it’d only been a servant stumbling into the door. “Where are you from? Everyone who’s met you mentions your excellent Castilian, but if you’re from Italy…”

The dark bled what little color Senderos might have had from his face, but he signaled his discomfort strongly enough with how he fidgeted, rubbing his fingers against the side of his neck. His hands were very thickly callused for a doctor, or at least the learned physicians David had known at court. They wouldn’t have looked out of place on the rough-and-ready barber-surgeons and midwives who handled matters on Gran Canaria. “I’m Swiss. I was born in Geneva, but I’ve spent most of my life outside of the cantons.”

“As a doctor?”

“Ah, no.” Senderos glanced down the hall, his shoulders raised slightly, and for a moment David thought that the man meant to leave. But then Senderos turned back and answered him, sounding somewhat ashamed. “When I was younger, I was a pike-man—a soldier. And a doctor too, but mostly…I hired out to different armies.”

“Italian ones?” David made a hasty search of his lessons, only to be reminded of how useless they often were, only teaching the lives of men who while undoubtedly holy, were long since dead. He tried his memory of court gossip with a little better success. “Don Ferrante?”

The other man frowned, then began to ask something, only to cut himself sharply off. “Oh, you mean the old king of Naples. No, actually, I…I entered the Neapolitan court only as a doctor, not a soldier. And only within the year.”

He looked uncomfortable again, and after a moment David understood why and cursed his curiosity for leaping ahead of his tact. As little as he knew of Italy, he had heard about the constant wars there and possibly Senderos was hinting he’d fought against his current lord at some point. Of course, that wasn’t an insurmountable black mark in Italy, or so David had heard—in Spain they’d had almost continual civil war before Ferdinand and Isabella had married, but it still would have been much more difficult to forgive such an act, and that was why David had winced on Senderos’ behalf.

Another silence fell heavily between them, while behind them, the soft slurring of the music was slowly fading, signaling the end of the dinner. He’d been gone quite a while, David suddenly realized, and he glanced anxiously at the door before thinking about how that would look to the other man. Then he grimaced, since he might be late but it’d also be rude to simply leave Senderos without another word. Besides, despite all the awkward moments, he’d been enjoying the conversation.

“But I served with many of the other Italian lords, and then I also spent time in Spain and France,” Senderos said. Apparently he felt that he’d caused the awkwardness, since his tone was placating. Then the corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a faintly nostalgic smile. “It wasn’t often as a soldier, actually. I’m not that bad a doctor, and a lot of my lords preferred me to work as one when they found out I had some skill.”

“So that’s why your Castilian is so good,” David remarked. His lack of thought made him shake his head hard, and then he looked up again. “That…must have been interesting?”

He sounded like one of the younger ladies, all gossipy tongue with no sense, David disgustedly thought. Fortunately Senderos seemed to be a patient sort, and merely nodded. “I like learning new languages, so it suited me. If you don’t mind—what do they speak in Gran Canaria?”

“Oh, it depends. A lot of the people come from Andalusia, but there are some Italians—Genoese—and Portuguese, and some Asturians. But everyone speaks Castilian, since the islands belong to Castile.” David paused, wondering if he’d erred and spoken a little too freely. But his accent wasn’t the same as someone like Iker and Senderos would certainly hear that, with his ear for foreign tongues. And Senderos was a foreigner himself, and called himself Swiss or Italian, so likely he hadn’t spent enough time in Spain to learn too many of the nuances. At least, David hoped that that was so. “It only may sound a little different, with who’s speaking.”

Senderos nodded thoughtfully, then began to inquire about the Andalusians, but he was interrupted by a loud, staggered series of scrapes from inside the hall. People were rising up to leave, and David still had to return to show the musician to the Queen’s chambers. 

David looked at the door, but turned back as he heard a softer scrape. Then he stepped forward with his hand out, seeing that Senderos was walking away. “Wait, you don’t—Don Fabio Cannavaro’s rooms should be down that way and then to the left. I don’t know how far to the left, sorry, but…”

“Thank you,” Senderos said, surprised. Then he stopped and smiled warmly, stooping in what David understood a moment later was a bow of some sort.

Of course David didn’t rate that sort of treatment, but he’d already smiled back, and then the other man continued on his way as the noises within the hall grew louder. After a moment’s hesitation, David decided that since Senderos hadn’t minded, neither did he, and he opened the door and quickly slipped into the hall.

In David’s absence, the dinner had progressed to dancing, but now the formal part had concluded and people could stay or leave as they wished. Many were still partaking in the dances, and more were clustered at the edges of the group, which aided David in remaining unseen as he threaded his way around the perimeter of the room. He began to breathe a little more easily.

“David.” Fernando’s teeth flashed whiter than the moon as he leaned back, giving David room to calm from his start. “So there you are. If you’re looking for the _vihuela_ -player, Miguel already took him up. And before you start castigating yourself, it wasn’t because you were late. Iker decided he might as well go up as soon as he finished, since we’ve other musicians for the dancing.”

After a moment, David slowly closed his mouth. He took a few deep breaths, looking about the room; eventually his eyes fell on the quartet in the corner, who were very nice, although David privately preferred the _vihuela_ earlier. “Oh.”

“Were you lost again?” Fernando asked, amused.

Startled again, David looked up, only to find Fernando’s eyes narrowing in sudden interest because the other man had merely been joking and that shouldn’t have been surprising, given how many times Fernando had rescued David from the bowels of the palace. The other man pursed his lips, then parted them to speak, but something caught his attention and then it was his turn to glance sharply away. He was still for a moment, looking, and then he absently excused himself from David and strode away.

David twisted to watch Fernando, curious about what was the matter, but he only glimpsed Fernando stopping besides Raúl and another man David thought was the Milanese ambassador, from the cut of the clothes. Two ladies were standing in the way, their elaborate hairstyles and skirts obscuring David’s view, and as he moved to pass them, someone jostled him.

He turned and found himself looking at the man who’d walked into him earlier in the day, just in front of the queen’s chambers. The encounter had left a slight bruise over David’s breastbone—not painful, but he’d meant to ask around about who the man was so he could avoid him, and then he’d forgotten with all the last-minute preparations for the dinner. Now he wished he hadn’t, given the intensity of the man’s gaze on him. For a moment David struggled to remember if he’d scraped the man’s boot, or done anything else that would deserve such scrutiny, during their earlier collision.

But the other man said nothing, merely looked on at him, and eventually David realized he was staring himself. He flushed and ducked his head, then twisted himself to the side, acutely aware of the many other people in the room. “Excuse me,” he muttered. “I need to…excuse me.”

David slipped to the left, where a gap between a noblewoman and a prelate had temporarily opened up. He quickly threaded his way between them and went several yards before he finally dared turn around, only to find that he’d completely lost sight of the other man. At first David was relieved, but as he calmed down and began to consider the encounter, he gradually convinced himself that he’d been rather foolish. For all he knew, it’d merely been a chance meeting as with the first time, and there were any number of explanations why the man could have stared at him so. Perhaps David had been blocking the man’s way to a person or a table, or…David turned around, startled. He grasped his arm over where he’d been tapped, but let go when he saw the one who’d done the tapping.

Brows raised, Xavi slowly withdrew his hand. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Oh. Oh, no, I was only…” David stood back and straightened his shoulders “…I met the Italian doctor everyone’s talking about. Well, he’s not really Italian.”

“No?” Xavi said. He gazed casually about the room, then looked at David again.

David suppressed a grimace and told himself to settle his nerves. “Outside, I mean. He wasn’t invited to the dinner. He seems pleasant enough, though, and he’s Swiss, actually.”

Xavi’s face cleared of its confusion and he grinned briefly before pivoting to allow a lady’s voluminous skirts to pass by them. “I see. Well, that’s not too…I am surprised he ended up in Naples, but the cities in north Italy have been trying to claim some of the Swiss cantons for long enough. Actually, I wonder if the esteemed Milanese ambassador would consider this man a Swiss or…”

He fell silent in response to David’s slight hand gesture, then gazed serenely at the wall before him as behind him, Don Raúl escorted the ambassador towards the other side of the room. Then he remained still a little longer, permitting most of the train of hangers-on and servants that always trailed behind Don Raúl to pass before he finally glanced at them. Nothing in Xavi’s face changed, though he did lift his chin a bit for a better view as the Milanese ambassador exited through a side-door.

“Is there…” David started. Then he stopped himself, unsure whether a question here would be tactless. 

He knew Xavi well enough to not be afraid that the other man would be angry or even show any sign that the question was unwelcome—some days he despaired of ever developing such composure himself—but he would rather not put Xavi through that trouble. Everyone always spoke about how ambitious and ruthless the members of court were, even the lowliest ones, but Xavi had never been anything but helpful and he’d never asked much of David in return. A little conversation, the occasional odd question, but that was very little in comparison to all the aid he’d given David.

“Hmm?” Xavi raised his brows again, but at the same time he looked kindly enough on David so that David only felt a little embarrassed for having lapsed into silence again. Then Xavi glanced over to the musicians, who’d just fallen silence. They started on another piece before Xavi could speak, but clearly they were still on his mind. “Well, it seems like you’ve nearly finished your first state dinner.”

“Oh. You’re…I have.” David smiled, absurdly pleased with such a simple accomplishment. “But that means I should go…I’m sorry, I only just ran into you.”

“No, it’s all right. You don’t have any duty to me,” Xavi said, smiling back. “It’s good to see you didn’t need me, after all.”

After a moment, David looked down at his feet. He rubbed at the side of his face, then slid his fingers back over his hair as he raised his head; Xavi was still looking at him, happy for David despite it being such a small thing. “But thank you. It was—it was nice to know I could look for you, even if I didn’t need to,” David finally replied. He took a step away. “I’ll see you some other time.”

Xavi nodded agreeably and David took another step, then finally turned and headed for the nearest door. He was still beaming when he went into the hall, though the darkness there made him sober a little. David paused and looked around himself, then swallowed a sigh as he went back to the Queen’s chambers.

* * *

After turning from the door, Raúl noticed a tie of his over-robe had snagged on a chair and stopped to free it. Then he began to slip his arm free of the sleeve, only to accidentally brush his other sleeve over his desk, sending several papers fluttering to the floor. He leaned over the chair to see where they’d gone, but Iker was already stooping to retrieve them so Raúl stood back out of the other man’s way. “I don’t know that it’s an actual proposal, but it is an interesting idea,” Raúl finally replied.

Iker glanced up, then looked down again, sorting the papers and shuffling them together. “So you find Inzaghi agreeable, after all?”

“I never—” He sounded a little harsh, Raúl thought, and he paused to take a deep breath. Then he resumed his disrobing, only to find his robe coming off by itself. He turned around in time to see Fernando folding that over the bedstead. “I never expressed any opinion on Inzaghi. I’ve never met him before. Anyway, it’s about his master.”

Fernando flicked his eyes heavenward as he returned to Raúl’s side, then looked studiously at Raúl’s shoulders as he teased off the various pieces of clothing Raúl was wearing. Strictly speaking, that was a duty for a valet, but Raúl had wanted to keep this conversation as private as possible and so he’d sent off his to see about a bit of food. He hadn’t been able to eat much at the dinner, as the mood around the place was one of somberness, not of indulgence, and he’d needed to set an example.

“Vieri’s been rather quiet. From what I can tell, he stayed in his chambers tonight, and so far he’s been very polite to everyone,” Iker said, standing up. He put the papers back on Raúl’s desk before leaning against that piece of furniture, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I do think Inzaghi’s been attempting to canvass the other lords, however. He was prowling around the queen’s chamber earlier, and I heard some odd things from Gutí.”

“On the same matter?” Raúl moved away from the other two and went behind the bed to draw the curtains; he’d been feeling a light draft from that direction for the past few minutes and now that he was only in hose and shirt, it was chilling him. Then, while he had a little privacy, he unpinned the tails of his under-shirt and pulled them out, letting them hang over his legs. He looked over the bed to see Iker shrug, then bent to pull off his hose. “Well, find out.”

Approaching footsteps made Raúl glance sharply up, but it was only Fernando. The other man stretched his arm over the bed, his palm turned upwards into a cup, and after a moment, Raúl dropped the pins into it. Then he straightened up and leaned against the bed, tugging off the last of his hose.

“All right, but it might take a while. Inzaghi is being fairly discreet, aside from wandering near the royal chambers.” Iker gazed at the wall, his nose slightly wrinkled. Then he shook his head, pushing off the desk with his hands loosely seated on his hips. “A good many people have taken to doing that lately. There’s Senderos as well, turning up everywhere, and I’m still not certain he’s as flighty as he seems to be.”

“Who?” Raúl asked. He put his elbow on the mattress, then lifted it when he noticed that his hose had tangled around that arm. Then he leaned his hip against the bed, only to stifle a hiss when hands suddenly brushed his hips. 

He looked up sharply, but Fernando was the picture of discretion as he carefully undid the ties of Raúl’s over-shirt, fingers moving briskly and without undue contact. Nonetheless the look of concentration on the other man’s face was a little too serious for Raúl to find it believable, and Raúl continued to stare warningly at Fernando. He would have preferred to have tended to himself, but it _was_ more proper for someone to help him with his clothes and he had no way of discouraging the other man without attracting Iker’s attention. And Iker was a man who could hold his tongue, a man of undoubted loyalty, and Raúl appreciated those qualities enough to not want to have to test them unduly often.

“Cannavaro’s doctor,” Iker clarified. He crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them and passed one hand over the top of his head, drawing Raúl’s attention to his face and to the exhaustion there. The man had had a good deal to do already, and his day still wouldn’t be over for some hours. “I don’t think that’s much of anything, at least where Milan is involved…I’ll keep an eye on it, though. And Inzaghi, though if you will be speaking with him, then did you still…”

“Yes.” Raúl allowed Fernando to slide the over-shirt off of him, then pushed out from between the other man and the bed while Fernando was occupied with the garment. “As I said, I don’t know if it’s a proposal or merely words. Try to find out why he’s so interested in Naples.”

With a nod, Iker gracefully withdrew, and shut the door behind him. The clicking of the bolt attracted Raúl’s attention and he glanced up, hesitating by the corner of the bed with his hand on the bedpost. Then his fingers clenched tightly around the wood as warm fingers tickled up his back, drawing an inadvertent shiver from him. He started to turn his head, then glanced again at the door; Iker had had to withdraw the bolt to pass through it and it would still be withdrawn, so that anyone could walk in if they pleased.

Fernando sighed, though he didn’t remove his hands from Raúl’s waist. His breath fluttered the edge of Raúl’s collar against the back of Raúl’s neck. “I’m quite sure that someone is standing guard in the hall,” he muttered, his thumbs beginning to draw slow arcs over the tops of Raúl’s hips. “Anyway, you did want to see me as well.”

“To _discuss_ matters,” Raúl said carefully, measuring the length of each word. He set his jaw and put his hands firmly enough on Fernando’s wrists, but then somehow his will began to waver, and he merely nudged instead of pushed. “Inzaghi—”

“Sloped off after dinner with a very nice-looking maid who offered to show him the difference between the Queen’s rooms and his own. I doubt he can be plotting when he’s buried between her thighs.” Fernando pulled Raúl back, fitting their bodies together. His mouth brushed the skin behind Raúl’s ear, then pressed hard against the side of Raúl’s neck, no longer teasing. “Give me an hour. An hour.”

Against his better judgment, Raúl leaned into the other man. His grip on Fernando’s hands loosened till he was merely covering them, their fingers tangling as Fernando began to push up the hem of Raúl’s shirt. An hour. An hour could be so much, in this uncertain time: in an hour, the whole world that they knew might turn upside-down, and come between them. Or in an hour, Raúl could find and strike at the root of that reversal and prevent it from ever coming to fruition.

But not if he was lingering in his bedroom, leaning against the post while Fernando’s mouth worked its way along his hairline, his cheek’s curve—Raúl closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, but only lost himself further in the press of Fernando’s fingers and mouth. He breathed in, twisting slightly, his hand sliding up Fernando’s arm as he turned towards the other man. Fernando’s lips ghosted across Raúl’s brow, then swept off to be replaced by the light weight of his forehead resting against Raúl’s. He lifted his hands and touched Raúl’s temples, then cupped Raúl’s face.

The slight rasp of his callused fingertips made Raúl open his eyes just as Fernando leaned it, and so Raúl glimpsed little more than a slit of color before he couldn’t bear to look any more. Instead he buried himself in Fernando’s mouth, raising his hands to knot them in the other man’s hair, finally giving himself up as lost. But Fernando caught him, and held him in place. Raúl’s hands slipped and his knees buckled, but he was anchored at mouth and hips by the other man and he never questioned for a moment whether that would be enough.

Fernando pressed them up against the massive post of the bed, his hands sliding from Raúl’s hips to waist and then back again, his palms passing over Raúl’s belly with a heat that made Raúl writhe, despite its briefness. Then they returned and flattened down against the bare skin, holding up Raúl’s shirt, as merciless as the irons of the inquisitor. For a few moments the tails of the shirt dangled free, affording Raúl flimsy cover, but Fernando impatiently bunched those up into his hands and then the chilly air of the room could make free with Raúl’s body from waist downwards. Shivering, Raúl invited Fernando further into his mouth, then swung one arm about the other man’s neck to secure him.

Unnecessary, of course, at least as far as keeping Fernando was. Bringing him closer, on the other hand—as if understanding Raúl’s thoughts, Fernando slid his hands around Raúl’s back and laid fully against Raúl, his clothing rough against Raúl’s legs. His belt-buckle dug into Raúl’s belly, some brooch bit through the thin linen of Raúl’s shirt and Raúl flinched, then heedlessly pulled the other man tighter against him, caring only about the feel of him. It came through all those layers of clothing, strong enough for that but not so strong that it was perfectly clear, that it was truly _enough_ and Raúl’s hand was dropping to the first fastening almost before he thought of it.

He managed that one but could only clutch at the next as Fernando’s fingers unexpectedly pinched his nipple between them. Shuddering, Raúl sagged, his head falling back and Fernando rose to catch his mouth as it fell open, lipping delicately around Raúl’s clumsy attempts to meet the other man. A low chuckle rumbled in Fernando’s throat as he plucked at Raúl’s nipple a second time, and then he dropped precipitously as Raúl, in a sudden panic, seized his shoulders.

Fernando hardly went far—the next moment he was nursing the abused nipple and Raúl, still dazed, was dragging his nails over the man’s back, trying to find some support as his knees failed him again. Surprisingly enough he made more headway in loosening Fernando’s clothing then, and by the time Fernando finally deigned to rise again, he at least had a wide slice of skin bared from the base of his throat down towards his breast. He smiled at Raúl, broad but conspiratorial. “An hour?”

“I think—it’s a quarter gone now, or so,” Raúl managed to say, half-breathless. The piqued expression on Fernando’s face made him laugh, and without thinking about it he drew his hand down the other man’s chest.

The room seemed to grow still around Fernando’s darkening eyes, from which all the annoyance had vanished like the last bit of air in Raúl’s lungs. Though Raúl gasped anyway, uselessly.

They used oil from one of the lamps. Raúl braced his back against the post just as Fernando lifted him up against it, and then the lack of air was valuable for reducing Raúl’s resistance to the pressure by that much more. Because he couldn’t resist, not now—not the demanding grip of Fernando’s hands, the assertion of the man’s mouth over his eyes and mouth and throat. The only time Fernando would fail to ask—the only time Raúl could allow himself to overlook such a presumption.

Fernando simply took him. Against the bedpost, Raúl’s shirt hiked up over his thighs that were wrapped tightly around Fernando’s waist, Fernando’s loose belt slapping occasionally against their undersides, a curt urging to which Raúl found himself shamelessly responding. He clutched himself to one of Fernando’s broad shoulders, pressing his face into it till he thought he could hear his cheekbone breaking, and let the other man take him.

It never lasted long enough. The world crowded in before the breath returned, before sight returned, before weight returned: by the time Fernando had set his feet back on the floor, Raúl was already looking at the crest hanging on the wall behind the other man. His hand slipped, or perhaps it was the stagger of his breath. Something made Fernando look up, his hair plastered to his brow, the flush still in his cheeks, and he could already see, too. It hurt him for a moment—still, after all these years, knowing what he knew about what they had to be—and then he smiled again. Close-lipped and lopsided and wry, and the dull twist in Raúl’s chest was tight enough to winch up his arm and put his hand against Fernando’s cheek.

For a moment Fernando’s lashes swept down. Then he snorted, and shook Raúl’s hand off to step closer. From somewhere he produced a small cloth, but he ignored his own disheveled state to begin wiping the oil off Raúl’s thighs. “I don’t know the slightest thing about Inzaghi. I’ve been watching Villa.”

Raúl looked sharply at him, startled out of the last lingering remnant of haze. He nearly reached for the other man’s wrist as well, but at the last moment thought the better of it and instead waited.

“He’s not so interested in me these days. Seeing Queen Isabella, on the other hand…” Fernando’s brows rose first, and then his eyes “…I ran into him near her chambers and warned him again. Of course, he’s not listening to me.”

“He should,” Raúl said. Then he frowned, leaning his head back against the post. A trickle of sweat got in his eye and he wiped it away, then sighed and plucked at his sweat-dampened shirt. “If he had any sense. But I suppose it’s just as well that he doesn’t.”

At the end Raúl let his voice lilt in inquiry and Fernando looked up again. It was a very brief glance, too quick for Raúl to read the other man’s face, but against Raúl’s thigh, Fernando’s fingers slowed. Then Fernando stood back, and tossed the soiled cloth onto a sideboard before he began to address himself to his own clothing. He looked at Raúl again, and this time it was steady and certain. “I think he was staring at Silva earlier.”

Raúl considered that bald statement. He pursed his lips, then pushed off the post and shook his head. The situation might be familiar, but familiarity didn’t breed sympathy, at least as far as royal courts were concerned. Anyway, Villa was hardly a naïve innocent; he was responsible for himself and any consequences that accrued to him. “Was Silva looking back?”

“I don’t think so.” Fernando paused, his fingers tangled in the half-done laces of his shirt. He cocked his head, his eyes darkening with a wholly different emotion from only a few moments before. “I don’t believe your family’s had a single thing, good or bad, to do with Silva. And whether or not he looks back is hardly important.”

“It would be in determining what to do. He is a favorite,” Raúl said, emphasizing the last word. Perhaps too obliquely, judging from the way Fernando stiffened. “And I and my family are only here to serve the Queen, of course.”

Fernando relaxed slightly, but kept his head cocked. “Very well, then.”

“I suppose you should go. I need to—this may change things, and at any rate, it changes the discussion we would’ve had,” Raúl reluctantly added. To ensure his meaning was clear there—and to forestall his own weaknesses—he walked around the other man to the washing-basin. “If you see—”

“I’ll send in the first valet or page I run across.” Then Fernando made as if to walk away, and Raúl turned away, but instead the other man leaned over and kissed Raúl’s jaw. His knuckle playfully tapped its underside, belying the somber look on his face as he straightened.

The pain in Raúl’s chest returned, then flared sharply as he repressed it. Possibly that was what spurred his tongue. “Do you feel sorry for him?”

“David?” Fernando asked. He didn’t apologize for the slip of familiarity, but instead considered the question for a moment. Then he shrugged carelessly, looking away. “I do. I do like him. But at the end of the day, he’s not whom I look toward.”

Raúl turned then. He breathed in a little when fingertips touched his face, where a mouth had only the moment before, and when the door shut behind the other man, he breathed out. The pain lessened a little with that, and then more as he sluggishly stirred himself to look for a night-shirt. It was growing cold.

* * *

“Xavi.”

Xavi started, then bowed his head in chagrin before he looked at his lord. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“I know, since I’ve called your name three times now,” Guardiola said. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to his desk and dipped his pen into his inkwell. After wiping off the tip on the well’s rim, he carefully set it against the paper before him and resumed writing. “Did you happen to hear Cesc, at least?”

Guardiola still appeared to be in a relatively good mood, but the slight edge to his tone reproached Xavi, as did the curious look Cesc gave him. Then Cesc looked down, fidgeting with the lace on his sleeves. “I was talking about how I saw Don David Villa stalking about at the dinner,” he said before Xavi could reply. “First I thought he was going to bother Morientes, but he didn’t stop. He actually let Don Raúl speak to the Milanese ambassador without interrupting them.”

“Villa?” Xavi repeated. He dipped his head again as Cesc’s brows rose, then rubbed at the side of his brow. “I didn’t hear that he had come.”

This time, Guardiola didn’t bother to look round, but merely gestured to Cesc, which would have made Xavi wince even harder if he hadn’t been concentrating to make up for his earlier lapse. Cesc likewise took his cue from their lord’s mood and restrained his obvious curiosity at Xavi’s sudden spate of errors in favor of offering a curt explanation. “He came in late last night, but rumor’s round that he’s already champing at the bit to get an audience with Queen Isabella. I think he’s annoyed Morientes, too, because at dinner Morientes ignored him.”

“Raúl was there, too,” Xavi pointed out. “Once the meal was over, Morientes went over to him and then they left together.”

“But most of the time, Don Raúl was talking to the ambassador, so Morientes could have gone over to Villa if he wanted to. He didn’t, and I heard Morientes also told all the Queen’s household to be on the watch for Villa,” Cesc retorted. He put his hands on the windowsill behind him and leaned back on them till the soles of his feet lifted off the ground. “That doesn’t sound much like they’re still friends.”

Xavi frowned and sat up, then leaned forward to rest his arms on his thighs. He had a scuff on the inside of his boot, probably from tramping about the kitchen pits earlier, and he absently made a note to see to that before he went to bed for the night. “I hadn’t heard about the warning. What did he say?”

“Just that they should remember their duty in ensuring that the Queen isn’t unduly disturbed, and that Villa is someone they might want to look out for. He didn’t say why.” After a glance towards Guardiola, who had finished his letter and was shaking pounce over it, Cesc pushed himself along the sill so he was closer to Xavi than to their lord. The arch of his brows as he went on carried a distinct tinge of insinuation, and then he added a rude gesture with his right hand, as if it wasn’t clear enough where his mind was tending. “But you know, the rumors said they were close till Morientes wouldn’t argue for Villa before the Treasury. They say Villa took great offense at that.”

“He lost some rich concessions and was disgraced because Morientes wouldn’t intercede for him, and when Villa probably deserved it. If I’d been Villa, I would have taken offense,” Xavi said. He raised his brows at the disappointment in Cesc’s face, then stifled a sigh as the other man sulkily slipped off the sill. “I wasn’t watching either of them tonight, but if there was any ignoring, I’d think it’d be on Villa’s side and not Morientes’. Morientes did keep the man from being tried for corruption, so I don’t think he holds any personal grudge, at least.”

Cesc looked at Xavi, then turned sharply around and began to draw the curtains, the line of his back stiff with indignation. His remarkable ear for news was very useful, but he was still young and it showed in the way he tended to favor the salacious over the truly significant. In time he would learn; he was too intelligent not to do so. But till then, he could be very exasperating.

“Is any of that actually important?” Guardiola suddenly asked. He put down the sander and dropped back in his chair, sighing. Then he put his arms out before him, his fingers interlaced, and stretched, his eyes squeezing more tightly shut with every pop of his spine. “Villa’s retained some of his provincial holdings, but he’s a relative nobody these days. If he ignores Morientes, or Morientes ignores him, then will that have any genuine effect?”

Xavi started to reply, but he hadn’t thought his answer completely through and he stopped himself as soon as he realized that. He scratched at the side of his neck, then twisted his head about, trying to shake off his strange distraction. Instead he startled himself when his own bones cracked, and then had to look sheepishly upward when Cesc exclaimed at the loudness. “I don’t think so, except that if Morientes doesn’t care so much for Villa now, he’ll have more attention to pay elsewhere, to other matters. He was trying to ask Cesc about Cannavaro this morning…”

“I put him off with some nonsense about Cannavaro’s doctor,” Cesc obligingly explained. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked thoughtful. “Though you know, the doctor is a bit odd. Not in a bad way, but…he’s not somebody I would think a great lord like Cannavaro would pick. He’s very…shy. But anyway, Morientes didn’t seem very interested in that.”

“Did you see who he was interested in at dinner?” Guardiola inquired, half-twisting around.

Cesc opened his mouth, eager to reply, and then went very still. A slight flush came into his cheeks before he dropped his head in chagrin, as he clearly hadn’t been watching to find out that information. He moved his shoulders, then coughed awkwardly, low in his throat.

“He talked to Silva for a little bit, but otherwise seemed bored till the meal was over. Then he made his way over to Don Raúl, but didn’t involve himself much in Don Raúl’s conversation with the Milanese ambassador,” Xavi replied. He let his voice roll slightly over ‘Milanese,’ then made a slight gesture with his right hand when Guardiola sat up slightly.

Nodding, Guardiola pulled back his arm till he was gripping the top of his chair’s back with his hand. Then he pushed down on it, as if to rise, but instead turned sharply about. He put his palms flat against the desk, head tilted, and then sighed and lifted them. Guardiola gave his arms a little shake to straighten out his voluminous shirt-sleeves, then reached for a fresh sheet of paper and his quill. “Very well. Thank you for telling me about the dinner. That will be all for tonight, I think.”

After a moment, Cesc reluctantly took his farewell. On his way out, he picked up Guardiola’s soiled clothes and threw them over his shoulder, apparently intending to see the laundress. He didn’t quite shut the door behind him, perhaps because his arms were so burdened, so Xavi crossed the room to see to that small task.

“Did anyone take offense?”

Xavi paused, his one hand on the knob and his other flat against the door. He looked at the higher hand, watching his fingers spread slightly till they spanned the recessed panel in the door. “My lord, it was a very important dinner and you are a very important person.”

“Nevertheless, I take it you made sufficient excuses for me,” Guardiola said, voice warming a little. When Xavi turned around, the other man had twisted to face him and was smiling somewhat ruefully. “It was a personal request from Ferdinand. I didn’t like it any more than you did, but I could hardly decline.”

“I think it would have been better to ask to see to the matter after dinner,” Xavi remarked after a moment’s hard thought. He was careful to keep the accusation out of his tone, though the memory of making those excuses and then bearing the replies was still fresh. “It wasn’t that urgent.”

The other man nodded again, acknowledging the point. Nor did he insist on his, but he hardly had to do that in order to convey his lack of regret. “Well?”

Instead of the sigh that was pulling at his lips, Xavi turned around and pulled shut the door. Possibly he did so with more force than was strictly needed, since the blunt sound of it seemed to crash through the room. “Your friends accepted it, and your enemies expected it. Most people were too distracted to think much of it during dinner, since Inzaghi is not, apparently, a talkative man and so they were intrigued by every word as if it was some puzzle. But they’ll think about it now, and…”

“Ah. Thank you, Xavi,” Guardiola said, and put his pen to paper. Its tip scratched out about a line before he looked up again, expression faintly quizzical. “Xavi, you can go now. You had a long dinner, and Andrés will be up by the time I finish this letter.”

“But Cesc—”

“Go.” Guardiola softened the command with an affectionate wave of the hand and an almost mischievous light in his eyes. “I’m a grown man. I don’t particularly need people to dance attendance on me, though I very much appreciate it.”

Xavi permitted this sigh to cross his lips, though its impact was somewhat blunted by the deep bow he made. He paused a moment later, even though he knew Guardiola wasn’t about to change his mind, before he pulled open the door.

This time he shut it more carefully, taking enough time so that when he finally pivoted on his heel, he found Andrés coming in from the other door. Andrés frowned, then gestured towards the bedroom door. When Xavi shrugged, Andrés briefly looked heavenward before shaking his head and dropping into a chair. He started to remove his boots, but stopped to put out a hand as Xavi crossed him. “Where are you going?”

“To get his late meal—” Xavi shared a long-suffering look with Andrés; Guardiola regularly forgot to sup at mealtime, and then would wake them with his searching for something to quiet his belly “—and to walk a little. It’s not that late and I think people will still be discussing the dinner.”

“Are you…” Andrés slowed, but looked harder at Xavi.

But he was too reluctant to continue, and Xavi was not about to complete the question for him. They’d already had that discussion and if André truly wanted a repetition, then he would have to ask for one himself.

It appeared that Andrés wasn’t worried enough to go so far, though he was far from happy about it. He was jerking at his bootlaces nearly hard enough to snap them when Xavi went out into the hall, and turned his feet towards the Queen’s chambers.

* * *

Queen Isabella did enjoy the music. So much so that finally her ladies had to send for the doctors to insist that she stop and rest, and so it was well past midnight when David finally showed the _vihuela_ -player out of her rooms. By then he would have been very glad to go straight to sleep, but unfortunately he had a few other duties that needed tending before he could do that.

Despite the rich dinner he’d had earlier, his stomach was growling again by the time he’d finished with his tasks and so he stopped in the kitchen. Nearly everyone had gone to bed, but there was one cook still up and chatting with Senderos, of all people. They stopped when David approached them, both looking rather guilty, but once he’d plaintively asked if any leftovers were possible, the cook smiled broadly and got up with a slap at her floured skirts.

“Here,” Senderos said, holding out something. Once David had taken it, Senderos turned his other hand to show the chunk of manchego in it. “I was feeling a bit hungry, too.”

“Didn’t you have dinner?” The cheese disappeared into David’s mouth almost before he realized it, and was utterly delicious, warmed as it was from Senderos’ hand.

The other man blinked, then looked a little embarrassed. He moved one shoulder awkwardly back as he broke off another piece of manchego for himself. “Well, I was rather lost, and even with your instructions, I didn’t find my way till the rest of Signore Cannavaro’s servants had already eaten. And I was busy—his secretary seems to have caught a cold and I needed to make up a fresh draft of medicine for him.”

“Thank you,” David belatedly mumbled. He swallowed the last of the cheese, then started round as the cook’s skirts brushed up against the backs of his legs.

Clucking her tongue over his supposed thinness, the cook spread out a veritable feast for David: chunks of veal and venison and mutton, sausages, several cheeses and a large jar of quince jelly that hardly looked touched. The sheer bounty of it embarrassed him a little, since it was a good deal greater than he should have, as a junior groom, but the cook was so insistent that he finally accepted it all. Then he closed his eyes and braced himself against the affectionate but rough petting she gave him as a farewell; her hands were well-callused by years of handling hot pots and pans, and they felt like the scrape of a razor over his cheek.

“Would you like some?” David asked Senderos, once the cook had left for her cot. He waved his hand at the spread before them. “Please, I can’t—”

“No, I’ve been well seen to,” Senderos said. The wrinkles in his brow were still very deep, but his eyes and tone were warm with genuine amusement. “Actually, I hope you’ll forgive me for diminishing your dinner, since I see a few of my leftovers in there.”

David glanced at the over-burdened sideboard, then reluctantly plucked a bit of sausage from it. “Oh, I think I should probably thank you for that,” he muttered, absently nibbling on the meat. Then his stomach grumbled and he tossed the whole piece into his mouth, only to cringe at his rudeness a moment later. He gave Senderos a sidelong glance as he got himself another bit of manchego at a more seemly pace. “I should take this up for my friends. The Virgin Mary knows how I’m going to carry all of it, though…”

“Well, there are some rags around here that you can tie the meats up in, and your boots look roomy enough.” Senderos fed himself more of his cheese, looking across the kitchen. Then he glanced back at David, the furrows in his brow deepening. “I’m sorry, I’m not very…precise with my tongue. I didn’t mean that your boots are ill-made, or—”

“Borrowed?” Shrugging, David found a spoon amongst the dishes and dipped into the quince jelly. “They are. The Canaries have very many valuable things, but right now they aren’t really what you’d call rich.”

Everyone in Spain knew that, and wouldn’t have needed David to tell them before they could proceed to the smugly contemptuous nod, or the even more irritating expression of pity. But oddly enough, Senderos opted for neither of the two once he understood; he merely nodded. “Even when I could afford better, I kept an old pair of boots that were too large for me. But that meant I could keep things like bits of food in them, where they’d be warm and less likely to be stolen.”

“We did—do that too,” David said after a moment. Even some of the lesser nobles at court did, though they were likely to knife you if you pointed it out. The difference between his home and court, at least as David had found, was that many things were necessary in both places, but in the one people didn’t mind seeing the necessary and in the other, people took great offense. “Or under the shirt, since when you’re out in the fields or at sea, you can’t leave your food on the ground or the animals will get it.”

Senderos grinned briefly, a bare moment before he tucked the last of his cheese into his mouth. Then he sobered and pulled out a cloth to wipe the grease from his fingers. “I’ve had to make camp in marshes and swamps a few times. I always hated that—once I woke up in this much water—” he marked off the depth on his thumb “—and with little fish in my boots.”

David grimaced in sympathy, then picked at his jelly. He lifted his head and started to speak, but stopped himself. Then he winced, knowing he shouldn’t and knowing that he was not going to be able to walk out of the kitchen without asking. “Did—did you eat them?”

“The fish?” Senderos asked, brows raised. He paused for a moment, then laughed quietly and nodded. “Well, yes. That was a—it was a difficult campaign. Once I got over finding the fish, I was actually very happy to have them.”

The pang in David’s chest was made up of both sympathy and recognition. He’d never been in exactly that sort of situation, but he’d felt that sort of relief before. “Was that in Italy? Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Never mind.”

“I did tell you I used to be a soldier.” Senderos wasn’t looking at David when he spoke, nor did it seem as if Senderos was speaking to David. Instead the other man was staring at a rack of pots on the other side of the kitchen, but from the distance in his tone, that seemed more a matter of coincidence than anything else. Then Senderos slowly swept his gaze back to David, and seemed to come back to himself in an oddly calm way. His smile was very slight and almost sad. “It was near Ravenna.”

“Ravenna?”

“It’s in the Papal states,” Senderos said. He watched David for a moment, then shifted so he could reach the sideboard. After tipping over a slice of bread, Senderos scooped out a great dollop of fruit jam and spread it carefully over the bread, making the occasional finicky twist of the wrist. He handled the knife without any sign of nerves, though once he’d put it down, he knocked his hand into the jam jar as he looked up hesitantly at David. “This is Italy. So Rome is here, Naples is here and here, Milan’s up there, and Ravenna is here.”

“Ah.” Pushing down his embarrassment at his ignorance, David leaned over for a better look. “I know—I know what the Papal states are,” he said, half to himself. “I just…have never seen a map of them.”

Senderos nodded, taking in the confession without any hint of irritation or disdain. “I’ve seen one or two, but just in passing, honestly. Mostly I know because I’ve been there.”

“You’ve been to Rome and Milan?” David blurted. Then he dropped his head and picked up the nearest thing as a distraction. But he winced again upon seeing that he’d half-torn the bread slice in two, pushing the pieces back together.

“It’s your bread, and I’m no artist. You can eat that,” Senderos said. Most would have been amused or sarcastic, but he seemed more anxious about David’s reaction than anything else. Then he turned away and looked blankly at the cloth in his hand for a moment. Realization dawned in his eyes and he shook out the rag, then folded it up and secreted it away in his clothes. “Rome…not really. I was outside its walls once, but we never went inside. But I have been to Milan.”

David held the bread a little longer before he finally finished tearing off a bit. Of course he couldn’t judge the fineness of Senderos’ map, but the man still had taken the time and so it seemed vaguely disrespectful to destroy it. On the other hand, it was bread and jam, and David was still hungry. “Have you seen its Duke?”

After a moment David looked up, concerned at the sudden silence that had fallen, only to find that quietly dissolving as Senderos got to his feet. He had his profile to David and at first he seemed to have closed his eyes, but then a glimmer beneath his lashes caught the light. Then he looked at David, and he wasn’t angry or even upset, but something in his gaze made David feel a faint ache.

“A few times,” Senderos said. “I have to go now. Good evening, and good luck with carrying back the food.”

David glanced down, uncomfortable and uncomprehending. Then the meaning of the man’s words sprang into his head and he jerked his head back up. “Oh! Thank—”

But Senderos had already gone. He could move very quietly, and beyond that, very quickly, for a man of his height. To be honest, it was a little unnerving, and for several moments David stood there and wondered if he should do anything.

He finally gave himself a good shake and thought sensibly about it: Senderos had every right to go back to his bed, and good reason as well, given the hour. And David’s stomach hadn’t lost its appetite, so he might as well sit down and continue eating. It would be a while before anyone else stumbled across him here.

Of course, he’d only thought that when the door creaked and David, on the verge of sitting again, jerked back onto his feet. He glanced about, then looked back and nearly started again. Then he sat down hard, breathing out roughly in relief. “I thought you were Iker.”

“No, I think he’s still overseeing the cleaning,” Xavi said. “Sorry, did I frighten you?”

“A little,” David admitted. He glanced to his right, then looked again. Then he turned back to Xavi, who was already lifting one brow. “But if you’d like to help me with something, I think I’ll forgive you for it.”

Xavi snorted, because of course David had never blamed him in the first place and he knew it. But he made his way across the kitchen anyway.

* * *

“May I help you, my lord?”

Villa stiffened and looked down, away from whomever was leaving the kitchens. He made an elaborate effort to even out the lace of his cuffs, then turned slowly around to raise an insouciantly bored expression. “Good evening. You’re Casillas, aren’t you?”

“I would be, and if you need anything, I would be happy to see what I can do,” Iker replied, letting his voice sharpen a little more. He knew well enough that Villa was only trying to bait his temper as a distraction, but it was a very late end to a very long day, and Iker was merely human. “Are you hungry?”

“No, I ate well enough at the dinner. That was very nice, by the way. A lovely show,” Villa said. He kept his eyes on Iker as he stepped first to the side and then forward, and then broke their locked gazes with a slight jerk of the shoulder as he continued on past Iker.

For all his bravado, Villa did seem to be heading in the general direction of his lodgings, so Iker grudgingly refrained from following the other man. Instead he went around the corner, hoping to find who’d attracted the man’s attention, but they’d long since made their escape. The kitchen held no clues either, beyond the unmistakable signs of someone rummaging for a late meal.

Iker put his hands flat against the nearest counter and pressed down on them, leaning over till he could nearly touch the wood with his nose. Then he abruptly threw himself back; he used so much force that he had to take a step to keep his balance, which split his frustrated snarl in two.

He breathed several times, each breath coming slower than the last. Then he shook his head and methodically began tidying up the kitchen. As painful as the day had been, it was at least done. Villa could certainly keep.

* * *

David managed to restrain himself till he was outside. Then he lost his temper.

The first real breath afterward hurt, the air dragging like nails over his raw throat. He pressed his clenched fists to his hips and stared once about himself, then a second time so he could actually know where he was. One of those innumerable little courtyards, with gardens of lush plants severely disciplined into a strict order, and the staring people among them little less bound up in their own ideas of the world. For the love of the Trinity, David angrily thought, they could at least pretend to look away.

“David,” came a low warning voice, and David turned to see Fernando bearing down on him. The other man was dressed very fine today, for all his somber colors, and his tall, well-built figure commanded attention as he strode over the gravel path. Though once he had neared David, Fernando couldn’t help that little glance around before he attempted to take David’s arm. “It’s a little sunny out here for your mood, isn’t it?”

“Then perhaps I’ll help by bringing some proper storms. You can’t have this lot of grass and pretty flowers without rain,” David snapped. Then he shut his mouth, disgusted with himself for having succumbed to the old, courtly habits so easily. If the sun couldn’t stand up to his mood, then poetry would hardly do any better. “Oh, leave me alone. Those women over there aren’t as shocked as they look. I’d wager they’ve seen worse rages, or even put on—”

Fernando’s eyes flashed. His fingers closed hard around David’s left upper arm, numbing the flesh there in an instant. “David, please come inside.”

David looked at him, at the uncompromising line of Fernando’s jaw and the skin pinching around his eyes. Then David sighed and bowed his head—and when Fernando turned towards the door, his grip loosening, David ripped away his arm. “You go inside. You fit in there. I’ll stay out here, where at least if I don’t suit, I can be _seen_.”

“David,” Fernando exhaled, twisting back. He put out his hand again but David jerked himself clear, and of course the other man wouldn’t risk making even more of a scene by lunging after David. “David. I told you before…be patient. Things at court take time.”

“You be patient. If that excites you so much, waiting. Sitting there like a dog and waiting for the odd caress from—”

Fernando went very still. His height would always be remarkable no matter the setting, but generally he carried it with a graceful, comfortable air that put people at ease with him rather than intimidated them. But he was no soft, pouting parasite of the nobility and he could show himself to be a man of considerable power, as he did now.

And David could recognize strength when he saw it. The name dried up on his tongue, though he still curled his lip as if to spit it out. After a moment, he did spit, into the dust to the left of Fernando, and then he stalked off towards the nearest gate. He could recognize strength and he could recognize when it was put to the wrong use, and hate it and hate the fact that he had ever found it admirable.

Noblewomen and their pages scattered out of his way as he yanked open the gate, then gave it a kick so it would continue to swing as he passed through it. He went several more yards before he realized he hadn’t actually heard those hinges creak, then turned round to find Fernando on his heels.

The other man hadn’t been expecting that and he had to draw up short, which kept him from speaking first. “What, come to say you can still do something for me?” David snapped. “Even after I’ve so unfortunately—”

“I can help.” The way in which Fernando clipped his words made it seem rather like he wanted to hit David. And perhaps he did, as he took a deep breath before continuing. “I want to help, even if you’re going to make it this difficult. But I am not a miracle-worker, and there will be a point where I can do nothing. Nor am I your lord—”

“No, because I have no damn lord.” David stepped back and the crunch of the pebbles beneath his boot grated on his inflamed nerves, and so he gave them a kick. “Perhaps I don’t have a king or a queen, for that matter.”

The gravel sprayed up in a crescent that slashed over Fernando’s shins, which stopped several stones that then rolled down the fronts of his boots. He didn’t appear to have watched them, since his eyes were still on David when David looked up. Angry and tired—that and resigned already. Defeated, before he even raised his hand and pressed at his temple, sighing. “David, you are out of favor, not set to be executed. Yet.”

David snorted, brows arched.

“If you won’t listen to me as a friend, you should at least listen to me as someone who knows the court,” Fernando said, his voice abruptly flaring with heat. He moved forward, forcing David to lift his chin to look him in the eye. “You didn’t come to many friends, but likewise you don’t have too many enemies. Not those who care enough to bother with you when their own holdings are worrying them, and nearly everyone’s are right now. If you would wait and watch, and pick your moment, you could use their distraction to your advantage.”

“Well, that seems reasonable,” David remarked after a moment. He watched Fernando’s stare of disbelief slowly melt, and the tension run from the man’s shoulders. “Of course it would. You’re a brave man when you want to be, but what you want is to be a coward and hide behind your lord’s curtains all the time.”

“David—”

This time, David bore the show of rage, and did not allow it to curb his tongue. “I think I’d prefer it if you addressed me properly, if you’re going to address me at all. We’re no longer _familiar_ , and in fact, I don’t think we ever were.”

Fernando pressed his lips together instead of replying sharply, as his sudden twitch forward had suggested. He glanced away, his hand coming up to graze his jaw, and then looked back, his anger a little lessened. The regret tempering it did nothing for him in David’s eyes. “I thought you took it too far, not that you were wrong. But if—”

“If you’d spoken for me, I would have a wife and enough land to have those dreaded enemies, and ships in my harbor and my ships crossing the Atlantic. But you did not, and I have barely enough to come here to beg for the rest of my father’s lands back,” David spat out. “And that much I owe to myself, not to any effort of yours.”

“Well, no, I wasn’t born with the land and wealth to risk. It was your land, and your prospective father-in-law’s money that you wagered on your plans. I was there to assess their soundness, not to approve of them,” Fernando said, his voice lashing back like a whip. His right hand curled briefly into a fist at his hip, then flattened its fingers over his hip. “I am _not_ a great lord myself. The most I could have done for you would have been to recommend them to Don Raúl and the rest of the Council, and they don’t have to listen to me, and—and your plans weren’t sound, David. It would have bankrupted the country and put what little we have of a navy on the west coast when France could have still launched attacks from Naples on the east.”

David looked blankly on as the world smeared over with a red film. The sound of his breath roared up in his ears, then faded away, and gradually his surroundings returned to their natural colors. “Do you think I would have put so much at risk if I didn’t believe in it?” he asked, very carefully. “Do you think I’m a fool?”

“No.” Fernando muttered it, abruptly looking away. He tipped his head up towards the sky, then down into his hand. Then he sighed again, his eyes half-closing. “No, but you believe so deeply in yourself that you’re blind sometimes. Listen, I did what I could—”

“And it was little enough, so forgive me if I prefer to forgo it altogether this time, and save myself the disappointment.” With that, David turned on his heel and walked away.

For the first few yards, his back was so stiff that each step sent a streak of pain up his spine. Once he realized that Fernando would not chase him again, David’s stride loosened, but he was still angry enough so that he plunged ahead for several minutes without even recognizing where he was going. Eventually his boot slipped on a stone, and the stumble forced him to unlock his joints and unclench his jaw.

The ache of his bones and teeth took David’s breath away, and he had to stop where he was to recover. Then he looked around, and found himself amid precisely-trimmed hedges that towered above his head in dense walls. They were more than half-brown now, in a shade that put him to mind of dried blood, and him in the midst of some old massacre.

“Signore Villa?”

David controlled his start, then swung himself about with the intention of simply walking away. But the fact that he found himself facing a slight, pinched-face man gave him pause; David recognized him from their brief encounter a few days ago, but knew him from the state dinner thrown in the ambassador’s honor. In order to have a seat at that dinner, and hopefully plead his case to the few officials who were still permitted to see the Queen, David had sacrificed one of his few remaining favors. The only return he’d gotten was today’s hearing, which he’d quickly come to realize was merely a pretence for further humiliation and extortion.

“Pardon my difficulty with your language,” Inzaghi said in a thick accent. “I understand you know something of ships.”

“Why?” David asked baldly.

Inzaghi appeared unruffled by the rough tone. “The Duke of Milan has an interest in such things.”

David frowned, looking more closely at the man. He was still considering departure, but admittedly he was intrigued now. Even at his highest point, he knew very well that his repute had only been regional, and he’d had one chance—but never mind that. Here was a foreign ambassador who’d apparently heard of him, and by implication, so had Inzaghi’s master. “Milan is landlocked, isn’t it?”

“Other states aren’t,” Inzaghi replied, his thin shoulders moving in a feeble shrug. “For example, Castile has very fine coasts.”

“True enough, but why would Milan care about them?”

“I think a better question is whether you care about them. Milan does not have an interest in Castile’s coasts.” Inzaghi’s opaque eyes shuttered even more as he raised his hand, forestalling David’s comment. “The Duke has an interest in men who are passionate about certain things, such as ships, and not in pieces of land that don’t belong to him.”

After a moment, David shook his head and turned away. “Well, that’s very well for him, but—”

“And he has an interest in investing in such passion, provided that it brings a sufficient return for him,” Inzaghi added. When David turned back, the other man made a bow that was far more grand that David deserved. “I apologize, however, if I have been misinformed about you, and would ask that you take this conversation as the mere talk that it is. I have no wish to disturb matters here at your court.”

“It’s not my court,” David said after a long moment.

Inzaghi straightened and looked at him again, but the man was no more readable than before. He simply nodded in acknowledgement before passing to David’s left and disappearing behind a hedge. After some hesitation, David walked after the other man, but could find no trace of him, even though Inzaghi had hardly been walking at double-quick pace. He cast about for the Italian for several more minutes, then gave up in disgust and made his own way out of the courtyard.

David had some vague thought about returning to his rooms, but hadn’t settled on the destination when he re-entered the palace. He gazed about without seeing anything familiar, then sighed irritably as he realized he was lost. He kicked his boot-heel into the ground, gritted his teeth, and in the end he picked a direction at random and strode off with the thought that eventually he would come across someone who did know the place—he grimaced and shied from that unpleasant reminder of Fernando.

And in doing so, apparently missed the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone’s shoulder took him in the chest, and his own shoulder and arm struck their body, making him rock back a step. His fingers caught in their clothing, then pulled loose and he reflexively seized the limb under the cloth.

“Oh, I’m sor—” It was Silva. He snapped his mouth shut as he saw David, his teeth clicking in his hurry. His eyes widened and he tried to pull away. “Sorry. Excuse me, I need to—”

“Wait,” David said, dragging him back by the arm. “Wait, I ran into you before.”

“And that time hurt too, thank you,” the groom said with surprising sharpness. Then he jerked free as David frowned, and before David could call him back, he’d flown down the hall and swooped up a staircase.

David stood where he was for an absurdly long time, watching the empty space where the groom had been. A distant noise finally started him out of his odd daze and he immediately threw himself into a jolting pace, continuing on down the hall. Never mind his rooms: anywhere quiet and free of courtiers would do. He had several matters to consider.

* * *

“Perhaps it’s Guardiola testing the wa—Fernando,” Iker said. His hands went to the arms of his chair and gripped them tight, as if he was going to rise.

But by then Fernando had already stormed well into the room, leaving the door shuddering open behind him. Through the doorway, Raúl could see a trail of shocked and curious faces; Sergio was already gesturing to someone else while casting a sidelong look at Fernando. Raúl glanced himself at Fernando, who’d come to a hard stop before the windowsill by dint of slamming his palms against it. Then he nodded to Iker, who quickly rose and left, closing the door behind him. “What—”

“I’d rather not,” Fernando said tightly. His fingers shifted over the stone sill, their knuckles whitening and reddening as the pressure on them changed.

“Then why come in here, disrupt my conversation with Iker and set everyone to gossiping? If I’m to deal with it, then I would appreciate an explanation,” Raúl told the man, letting some bite come into his voice.

Fernando’s right shoulder twisted back, as if he meant to turn. But he remained facing forward; his head dipped slightly and the blades of his shoulders stood out crisply under his clothing as he bent. “You’d rather not.”

“How do—”

“I give up on Villa,” Fernando said abruptly. He let out a long, shuddering breath, and slowly the rigidity left his arms till his fingers unclenched from the sill. They slipped off, flexed and then hung loosely as he slowly turned about, face no longer angry but shadowed with guilt. “I should have gone to my rooms, but yours were closer and I wasn’t thinking.”

Raúl nearly agreed with Fernando on the last part, but he swallowed the words and instead let them burn in his throat. He pushed his hands down the arms of his chair, then slowly rose to his feet. “I had no idea you were still trying to intercede for him.”

“The quicker he has what he wants, the quicker he’ll leave. He doesn’t like court and won’t stay any longer than he has to.” After a moment, Fernando stepped away from the sill and towards Raúl. He half-raised a hand, but dropped it as Raúl walked past him. “I’ve only been trying to arrange a hearing to hurry him along—”

“I’m afraid I was under the impression you’d only warned him not to bother the Queen’s household. Which is the mannerly thing to do, I suppose,” Raúl said, struggling to keep his voice a murmur. He went towards the door, where the carpet had rumpled under Fernando’s enraged steps, then bent down to smooth away the folds.

Fernando inhaled sharply. He took a dragging step, then stopped and let out a frustrated, ragged exhale. “Raúl, this is not an attempt to keep something from you. I wasn’t _thinking_.”

For a moment Raúl remained squatting on the floor, his fingers pressed into the carpet. He leaned more of his weight on his hand, till his knuckles began to pain him, and then he pushed off it and stood again. As he came towards the other man, Fernando made an abortive attempt to reach towards him and Raúl turned away. Then he went to stand before the sill. “Arranging a private hearing with Isabella is difficult to do without any thought.”

“Don’t do that. Please don’t—”

“Don’t _lie_ to me,” Raúl said, twisting around. He looked Fernando full in the eyes, unable to swallow any more of his anger. “Not in here. If you’re going to lie, then you can wait outside to do it with the others.”

Then Raúl turned about again. He stiffened under the touch to his shoulder, then ignored the almost-touch to the side of his head, staring out the window. When he heard Fernando draw a breath, he pointedly brushed off his shoulder. “I heard rumors. I’ve never asked if they were true. But you can tell me right now. Or you can go, and tell Iker to come back in.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” Fernando said after a long silence. Voice thick, the warmth of his hand still hovering just above Raúl’s back.

Raúl closed his eyes. When he heard the door open, he put his forehead against the side of the window. He bit the inside of his mouth till he drew blood, then breathed deeply and, with all his will, crushed down every bit of feeling. By the time Iker came in, he could turn back to that discussion with a calm, cold mind.

* * *

“No, Xavi’s had to go into town for some errands, so I have to request your mercy on poor me as I try my best to match his high standard,” Cesc said, half-lofty, half-winsome. He added a dimpled smile as he tried to sneak a sweetmeat from the counter, then looked so offended when one of the scullery maids slapped away his hand that she immediately handed it over, laughing. “Oh, please, surely you can take a little pity on me? My poor lord has forgotten to eat his dinner again, and he’ll want something tasty when he remembers in a few hours.”

“Ah, it’s _Don Josep_ whose belly needs filling? And what’s that on your lip? Marmalade?”

David turned away from the resulting roar of laughter, feeling more than a little disappointed. Usually he and Xavi had a few minutes to talk and catch up on the news from various parts of the palace as Xavi gathered Guardiola’s usual midnight treats, but tonight he apparently had to do without that. And he’d been waiting all day to tell someone about Villa’s attempt to walk over him again.

Tomorrow night then, he thought as he slipped out of the kitchen. In the meantime, he supposed he could see what the other men of the Queen’s household were doing—probably dicing or plotting how to smuggle themselves into some lady’s chambers. Neither were activities David particularly enjoyed, but he did like the bright chatter and the jokes, and he hadn’t been spending much time with his fellow grooms and valets lately. They’d actually begun to call him a bat, because he was forever getting up in the middle of the night without saying where he was going.

He could turn in early tonight, he thought as he went around the corner, and David was just beginning to see some good in his missing Xavi when he stopped short. Then he glanced quickly around, hoping desperately that someone else had come out of the kitchens behind him.

“I didn’t run into you this time,” Villa said.

David jerked, then slewed around to stare at the other man. He took a step back and Villa moved his arm sharply, and David panicked and leaped sideways, putting himself between a barrel and the wall. He couldn’t have more effectively cornered himself if he’d thought about it.

Villa grimaced, seeming oddly unhappy about that. He put his hand down and slightly behind him, which made him look a little stiff. “I didn’t see you. The other times. So it wasn’t on purpose.”

“Oh,” David said after a moment.

“I’m sorry if it hurt,” Villa added. He seemed to have some difficulty with the words, as if he wasn’t quite certain how to say them. “I didn’t mean to do that either.”

He stared so intensely at David—David had to drop his own gaze to avoid it, looking instead at his fidgeting fingers. “Oh. Well, it didn’t hurt that much, and I wasn’t looking where I was going either. I…well, good evening, and—”

Villa moved his arm again, quick and blade-like, and David stepped back against the wall. He glanced at the man, then drew a deep breath out of lack of any better idea of what to do.

“They say you’re one of Queen Isabella’s grooms,” Villa said after a long, tense pause. He had pulled back his arm to his side, where it hung rigidly, more like a rod than a limb. But he was still blocking David’s way, and he didn’t seem inclined to move. “Your name’s David, like mine.”

“Most people call me Silva, actually. Because there are so many Davids,” David mumbled. He rolled his tensing shoulders and absently tugged at his cuffs, taking little quick glances around Villa and judging how much space he might have. And it wasn’t that late yet: Cesc at least should be leaving soon to go back to Guardiola’s chambers, and Cesc had a nose for odd meetings like a fox had a nose for chickens. “I apologize, Don David, but I…should go…”

“They used to call me El Guaje. ‘The kid,’ because I was a little smaller than most. But that was back in Asturias.” For a moment Villa’s voice softened, and when David chanced a look up at the man’s face, he found Villa looking off to the side. But then Villa turned back and his gaze seemed to scrape off a layer of David’s skin as it swept over David. “You don’t have to be so polite to me, you know. You have a higher seat at the table than I do.”

A touch of warmth seeped into David’s cheek and he pressed his hand to it, then jerked that down when he realized what he was doing. He looked at a point about the top of Villa’s left shoulder. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“You do. I noticed that at the dinner for that ambassador, the one from Milan,” Villa said, a strong strain of irritation coming into his voice. His eyes fluttered briefly, like a horse bothered by a gnat, before he fixed them on David again. “Where are you from? You don’t sound—”

“I’m from Gran Canaria,” David curtly told the man. Then he dropped his eyes to the ground, his flash of temper fading quickly as his commonsense returned. It might be an old, exasperating question by now, but Villa had every right to ask it and to make what he would of it. “I was born there. It’s very far from the west coast.”

Villa blinked the single, deliberate blink of a watching beast of prey, and then his lips pulled into a surprisingly careless smile. He had very white, square teeth, a little small but very straight. “I know where it is. We have ships in Asturias, you know. You’ve probably seen some of ours in your harbors, even if you didn’t know it.”

“I did know. There are Asturians on the—” David bit down on his fraying temper, remembering their relative ranks “—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m…not used to people knowing—”

“—where anything is besides the church, their money and their bed? I probably put that in the wrong order, actually. Money, lust and the church would be better.” After a moment, Villa pressed his lips together and shook his head, as if he had an ache there. Then he stepped forward but half-turned at the same time, so he actually left David more room between him and the rest of the hall. He touched two fingers to his temple, his head tipped so he was almost looking up at David. “I’m frightening you, aren’t I?”

David hesitated, then glanced around Villa without thinking. Then he looked back at the other man, nervous, but Villa merely seemed amused by the slip, judging by the quirk of his lips. “They said not to talk to you,” David blurted out. “I mean—”

But Villa’s face had already darkened. He stepped back, but somehow he seemed to take up more space that way, with how his shoulders went back and his chin up. His arm dropped and his stare should have scorched the wall behind David. “Well. Did they. Did _they_ say why?”

“Er—”

“I doubt it,” Villa muttered, answering himself. His lips curled back from his teeth, but this time they were bared in a snarl. And then they snapped, the sound as clear and crisp as a breaking twig beneath a horse’s hoof; alarmed, David jerked past the other man and Villa whirled to catch his wrist. He yanked hard on it so David’s feet skidded over the carpet. “Where are you going? Wherever they told you—”

“I’m going where my duties are!” David dug in one heel and twisted his arm sharply till it came loose—Villa had been pulling, not gripping. Then he quickly put himself out of arm’s-reach, staring in shock at the other man.

Villa snorted, contemptuously tossing his head. “What, the Queen? No one else can see her, not even her cabinet, but little grooms like you can run in and out as you please, is that how it is? No, I’m sorry, I’m forgetting something. You have to have something to scurry to as well as away—so who is it? González? Or—”

“I attend to the Queen, and go where she sends me. Which is none of your concern,” David snapped back. He cradled his arm against his chest, then shook his head as he twisted on his heel. “And even if they hadn’t told me, I’d stay away from you. You’ve no grace at all, Don David.”

He heard a noise behind him, like the angry whuff of a bull, and David’s sudden bravado deserted him as he broke from a fast walk into an jerky jog. Then he pulled up short just in time to avoid running into the kitchen door as it swung out before him; David caught himself against its edge, hissing almost immediately as the impact jolted his wrist. His eyes dropped to his hand, where a darkening bluish patch was peeking out from his sleeve.

Then David sucked in his breath and glanced around the door—but the hall was empty. Relieved, he sagged back and gradually realized people were speaking to him. Cesc, who grabbed David’s shoulder and shook it just as David had been about to answer. “Are you all right? Where did you _come_ from? I didn’t hear you, did I—”

“No. No, you didn’t hit me. I just—I wasn’t paying attention,” David said slowly. He was still a little short of breath and he leaned hard against the door, letting Cesc fuss over him anyway. Then he grimaced and pushed down his sleeve, remembering.

“Well, still, you’re all grey, and…and here, here’s a doctor,” Cesc said, twisting around. He waved imperiously at the crowd of curious onlookers, who parted to leave Senderos standing alone in rather uncomfortable stillness. “You’ve had enough tidbits down here, so you could at least look at Silva.”

“Cesc,” David hissed, scandalized. Senderos was part of an ambassador’s retinue, and he hardly needed to stoop to trade these days to obtain what he needed.

Fortunately, Senderos didn’t seem offended and came forward with every apparent sign of willingness. He slipped through the gathered servants and gestured for David to come over to the side, where he blocked them off from the rest with his bulk, some quietly efficient maneuvering and the aid of a large barrel of pickled vegetables. Even Cesc couldn’t find a way to pass and had to fall back with a somewhat disgruntled look.

Not that Senderos saw that, as he had his back to Cesc and was asking something. He repeated it again, as David apparently looked confused to him. “You didn’t run into the door. Your eyes aren’t dazed and anyway, I didn’t hear you hit it. What happened?”

“Oh, it’s…” David faltered, glancing at the door. Then he shook his head and made up his mind; it had been a disturbing encounter, but he hardly knew what it had been about, and he’d been at court long enough to know better than to mix himself up with anything strange. Better to leave Villa to his own devices, and if they were unwise or immoral, then they would probably see to him. “I was in an argument with someone. It’s nothing much.”

Senderos nodded, his gaze flicking from David’s face to the hand David had just raised to push at his hair. It lingered there and David hurriedly lowered his wrist, then cupped his fingers over the bruise.

For a moment Senderos seemed about to ask a question, but instead he sighed. He looked at David for a little longer, then turned. “Well, you would know if you’re all right or not. But I can take a look if anything bothers you later. In private, if that helps.” He smiled at David’s arched brows, and it was kind but oddly regretful at the same time. “I do treat Signore Cannavaro, but as a doctor I only offer medical advice, and nothing else.”

“Thank you for the offer,” David said after a moment’s thought. He loosened his grip on his wrist, then released it and began to move past the other man. He’d had worse bruises from daily chores at home. “I don’t think I need to take it, but I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Senderos replied simply. When David tentatively leaned forward, Senderos immediately moved out of the way, and then turned and walked away himself. He was just bending over a burn on a cook’s arm when David slipped out of the kitchen.

* * *

By the time Xavi had left his horse to the stables and had begged a late meal from the lone scullery maid left in the kitchens, it was well past midnight and the dark halls were chilly and empty. The moon was out, but the pallid beams it cast through the narrow windows only seemed to heighten the lifelessness of the heavy stone walls and floors. He’d had a bowl of hot stew only minutes before, but already the autumn chill seemed to have seeped into his very bones.

Xavi pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and slightly quickened his pace, glad enough that he was on the last leg of his day’s journey. He presumed that between them, Cesc and Andrés would have divided up the evening’s duties, so with any luck, he would be able to go straight to sleep once he’d reached Guardiola’s chambers. At this hour even their lord should be sound asleep, and Xavi had nothing to tell him that couldn’t wait till a decent time of the morning.

A cold draft whistled down the hall and Xavi shivered, then reached back and flicked down the hood of his cloak over his head. The cloth fell over his eyes, so he had to bend his head to see, and even then he had little more than a narrow strip of floor to guide him.

For a while Xavi thought that that was sufficient, but eventually he turned where there should have been another hall, only to have his toes strike stone. He jerked his foot back, hissing slightly at the pain, then attempted to peer out from under the hood without lifting his head. But that proved futile almost immediately, and so Xavi pulled off the hood, resigning himself to frostbitten ears.

He looked about himself, then sighed when he realized how badly he’d gone astray. Fortunately he still wasn’t far from Guardiola’s chambers, but as Xavi turned about, he kept his hands by his sides even as another icy draft nipped sharply at his ears. He’d have to do without the hood.

Xavi had only just turned about when he heard a noise. He’d come into a long, high-ceilinged gallery with narrow windows lining one side, and because of the peculiar way the vaults reflected echoes, he at first thought that someone had walked up behind him. But Xavi saw no one when he turned around, and when the sounds continued, he understood that they must be coming from outside. He went over to the nearest window, then to the next when the first didn’t afford him a good enough view.

The gallery was set over a small courtyard, little more than a pavilion with a fringe of browned grass at the sides. On three of the four sides, the surrounding buildings threw long shadows out, swallowing up most of the space, but the building on the fourth side was set a little farther back, allowing moonlight to spill in at either corner till it pooled in irregular teardrops across the stones of the pavilion. In one of them was a man, and from the way he was holding himself, someone else was standing across from him in the shadows, listening to what he was saying. And he was saying quite a bit, judging from the wide arcs his hands made as he gestured.

His back was to Xavi, so—Xavi moved sharply back as the man abruptly pivoted, but the gallery was too high up for Xavi to make out the face. He could, however, make out the anger that permeated the man, from the jerky strides to the slash of his cloak behind him.

Xavi edged both closer to the window and further from it, pressing forward but sideways, so he could put his eye nearly against the glass but keep his head mostly hidden behind the wall. Even though the people below couldn’t hear him, he held his breath.

Just before the angry man would have crossed into the shadows, the folds of his cloak slipped. He reached up to seize them, and in doing so looked up as well.

Then he had slit himself into the shadows. If he was heading indoors at that point, there was no way Xavi could make it around in time. And Xavi wasn’t necessarily interested in David Villa himself, so Xavi stayed where he was.

By the time he decided to leave, several minutes later, he’d completely lost all feeling in his ears. But he hadn’t seen a single sign from whomever Villa had been meeting, and he thought it unlikely that he would see any if he remained at his post. Whoever it had been, they’d been careful enough to stand in the shadows in the first place, so it would be very careless of them to have suddenly walked out from him, even after Villa had left.

At any rate, Xavi was still tired. He had other means of figuring out who it could have been, but none of them would be available till morning. So he promised himself he’d seek them out when he could, and went off to his bed.

* * *

Fernando looked up, then belatedly smiled. The corners of his mouth and eyes hurt, as no genuine feeling lay under it. “Oh?”

Iker stared at him, lips pressed tightly together. Then the other man turned to the ledgers spread before him. He put his hand on one and bent his head over it, as if reading, but his voice directed itself very precisely at Fernando. “I’m not besotted with you. Don’t act like that will work on me.”

A touch too late, Fernando raised his brows. His mouth twitched, caught between the amused smile that the comment demanded, at least as a matter of maintaining his reputation, and the grimace that far better suited his mood. Then he sighed and let it flatten, seeing no relenting in Iker’s flat gaze. Some things couldn’t be laughed off, as he’d been so recently reminded.

He sat down, and after a long moment, Iker stepped back from his desk. The man crossed the room and checked the lock on the dock while Fernando watched, more from a simple reaction to the movement than from any real interest. Then Iker turned around, sighing himself, and leaned against the door. “I wasn’t joking just now.”

“Yet I see no inquisitors coming to question me,” Fernando half-heartedly replied. He glanced at Iker, then leaned back in the chair, rubbing at the side of his face. “That was a joke.”

“Yes. That’s one of your more irritating—never mind. You’re his choice, not mine.” Iker let the import of his words stand between them. Then he suddenly pushed off the door and returned to his ledgers—the motion did nothing to change the degree of tension in the air—with the apparent intent of working on them. He even went so far as to pick up his quill when an exasperated exhale betrayed him. “What happened? I need him to listen to me but he’s distracted, and so I ask you because usually he listens better to you but you’re distracted as well. And you look as if you’ve spent the last ten years without a single night of sleep.”

Fernando snorted, pressing his fingers to the side of his nose. “I do wonder why he prefers to listen to me over you, with your way of assessing matters. No, don’t get upset at that. You’d do better to lose your temper over how I offended him by expressing a desire to help David Villa.”

The quill ticked sharply to the left, then tilted back just as violently. Then Iker glanced down; frowning, he stopped his fidgeting and dipped the quill-tip into the inkwell. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied his books. “I wanted to talk to him about Villa, actually.”

A wry comment sprang to Fernando’s lips, but he merely folded his hands together and pressed the sides of his fingers against his mouth. Then he leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees so he could keep his fingers barring his lips.

“And now you’ve…this. As it…” Iker dropped his hands over the ledger and looked up at the wall before him. Then he closed his eyes. His mouth moved silently a few times before he resumed speaking. “What is the matter with you? You—do you know what it would mean if you were…no, not even caught, but if a mere rumor started? I’ve been fretting over the thought of that for _years_ , but at least I thought you thought about it as seriously—”

“I do,” Fernando snapped. He jerked his hands down between his knees, then stared at them. Then he stifled a blasphemy and slouched against the left side of the chair. “Don’t compare the way you think about it to me. I don’t _fret_ over the idea of—”

“No, you’d rather look like your mother had just died.” The quill scratched angrily over paper, then resumed its equally angry flicking as Iker pushed himself back from the desk. He closed his eyes, then opened them while shaking his head. “Never mind that.”

A sudden wave of white-hot rage whipped through Fernando. “Pardon? _Never mind_ —”

“Well, you mind, if you still care to. But I can’t be—I’m not so concerned with however you conducted your private life before. Unless it impacts my current concern, which is that Villa has apparently been meeting with Inzaghi,” Iker said, his voice cutting across Fernando’s as easily as a streak of frost could shoot over a glass pane. He looked warningly at Fernando, then resumed writing in his ledger at a steady, controlled pace. His little flash of humanity had once again been subsumed under his utter devotion to his servant’s role. “Obviously Villa’s hoping for intercession on his behalf to get him a favorable hearing, and he’s not likely to have many offers from Castilian patrons, given his recent behavior. I do not, however, know what Inzaghi is aiming to accomplish.”

Instead of even trying to think of a reply, Fernando concentrated on breathing. A task that was sometimes more difficult than commonly believed, when one’s throat was nearly clenched shut, and one’s…Fernando rubbed at his neck, then at the center of his breast. Then he inhaled deeply and pressed his hand against the side of his face. “Nothing to do with actually helping Villa,” Fernando muttered after a moment. “His and Villa’s interests don’t coincide in the least.”

“Well, Inzaghi isn’t a benevolent fool. He can’t be if he can poison the leading French general and get away with it.”

“You believed that—”

Iker snapped his quill up into his hand, so the tip cracked loudly against his fingernail. He glowered at his books, then slowly pushed himself up, rolling back first one shoulder and then the other. “I don’t believe it. I have my sources and I know that rumor’s true. What does Villa have that Inzaghi would bother looking at?”

Fernando looked past his hand to the other man, then made himself sit up. He should care, or at least make an effort to care, no matter what he was feeling. If nothing else, being lax about court intrigue could and would lead to difficulties for Raúl, and that was hardly what Fernando wanted. “Desperation.”

That quill was in grave danger of being broken in two. “What?”

“Villa’s willing to even meet with some foreign ambassador, when he always was…he reminded me of Raúl that way,” Fernando said. A little humor, hollow and grim, crept into his voice, and he could feel his mouth twisting into an inappropriate curve. Unfortunately it was his nature to try and put the best face on things—at least now. He’d been at court for longer than Iker; he knew his role better than the other man, even if he didn’t always let it ride so heavily on him. “It’s not that they have anything against foreign things. It’s just that they see something…a disappointment, some kind of failure, in not being able to rely only on things from their lands. Only on themselves.”

After a long, tightly silent moment, Iker put down his quill. He reached out a second time to stop it from rolling over the ledger, then let his arm fall stiffly to his side. Then he exhaled lowly, absently tugging at his sleeve. His brows drew down. “I wish you wouldn’t refer to Don Raúl so familiarly.”

Fernando glanced at the other man, then whisked away his incipient smile when Iker abruptly looked back. He lifted his shoulders.

His eyes flicking slightly to the side, Iker irritably pushed aside the ledger before him and then several others, rearranging his desk till he’d got to some sheets beneath the books. “I have enough on my mind without having to care about it,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Fernando. His hand briefly rose to touch his reddened cheek, then swiftly dropped. “I don’t need that to—to—so Villa. Is he dangerous?”

Admittedly laughing wasn’t the best reply, but it was the honest one. It was also short and raspy, and trailed away before Iker could finish looking up to glare at Fernando. “Of course,” Fernando said. “He’s a capable man. If you pair that with desperation, and Inzaghi’s…apparently amoral cunning…”

“He’s tried out his proposal on a few other nobles besides Don Raúl. Gutí—Inzaghi’s informers must be a little out of date, to not realize Gutí’s in debt to Don Raúl now. Also Hierro.” The blush was fading from Iker’s face, and so was the strained note in his voice as he returned to more familiar grounds. “All Castilian. No sign he’s tried any Aragonese yet, and anyway, he should know by now that he’d go furthest with Don Raúl. If Don Raúl is of a mind to allow it.”

“The last I knew, Raúl wasn’t very enthusiastic.” Fernando mustered a faint trace of amusement at Iker’s visible discomfort, but he quickly lost it as his mind inevitably followed his line of thought to its end. “But then, I haven’t spoken to Raúl since my unfortunate moment of pity regarding Villa. I can’t speak to his current thoughts.”

“What about Villa?”

An answer came readily to Fernando’s tongue, but then he swallowed it. He hardly knew Villa’s state of mind either, and possibly he never had. When they’d met, Fernando had not been seeking anything but a distraction, and by the time he’d seen Villa for the man—not the opportunity—the course of events had prevented anything from coming of it. Events coming both after their meeting, and long before…pity wasn’t the full truth, Fernando regretfully admitted.

When he looked up, Iker started as if he hadn’t expected Fernando to react to his cleared throat. But the man quickly composed himself, his unforgiving gaze bending hard on Fernando. “Can you at least talk to _him_?”

“Are you joking?” Fernando said, careless with sudden anger. “Talk to him? When the entire reason Raúl—”

“Would you put aside your damned life for a moment?” Iker inhaled sharply, then shook his head. “Do you want it to go to a killing? If that’s the only way, then all right. But Don Raúl doesn’t have much taste for blood these days. And it could be difficult for other reasons. It’s not a good time for blood.”

After a few deep breathes, the urge to tell Iker what Raúl did and didn’t have a taste for passed, and Fernando could think soberly again. At least, he could make a pallid attempt to do so. “I don’t—it wouldn’t be blood, I’d think. If you already know about their meetings, then Inzaghi and David aren’t very good at this, are they? But no, I can’t talk to David. He has no taste for me these days.”

“I suppose that’s just as well, if you can’t seem to decide yourself where your own tastes lie,” Iker muttered. He glanced at Fernando, then raised his brows. “Then I’m dealing with this by myself again, aren’t I. You’ll have enough to do reminding Don Raúl that you and he have too many business arrangements to never speak to each other again.”

“For someone who’d rather not worry about it, you seem to take an uncommon interest.” Fernando tilted his head, then shrugged when Iker looked more sharply at him. “Not in Villa and Inzaghi. I don’t—well, I’d _hope_ you’d never take an interest in that, for the sake of your taste.”

The red flared up in Iker’s cheeks again, but his lips compressed till they’d lost all their blood. “Get out of my office, Morientes. I’ve what I need to know.”

“There’s no harm in a little humor—” Fernando started.

“Why don’t you tell me that once you’ve made Don Raúl laugh at your jibes?” Iker suggested acidly. He lifted his head just enough for his eyes to flash, then pointedly flipped open his ledger. As the dust rose from the pages into his face, he didn’t blink or snort.

That was a little too harsh for someone who professed to be only interested in the political consequences. And almost too harsh for Fernando to bear, when he knew far better than Iker, with all his careful weighing and calculation, what he’d gambled and lost—possibly lost. It wasn’t certain—Fernando wouldn’t allow it to become certain. He couldn’t.

He rose to leave, and Iker turned the point of his shoulder to him. After another deep breath, Fernando twisted on his heel.

His hand was on the door when he heard a slight cough. “Tell me when he’s speaking to you again,” Iker said quietly, without his earlier rancor.

Fernando glanced over his shoulder, but was unsurprised to find nothing but a stony cheek presented to him. He turned back around and went out the door, without any further interruption.

* * *

“It’s not that serious,” Andrés half-heartedly protested, already halfway through the door. He nearly stepped back through it as a cook bustled blindly past him and nearly caught his face with the handle of the large tureen the man carried, but then he ran into Silva behind him and was forced to step forward.

Silva shut the door, then slipped out from behind Andrés while keeping a hand on Andrés’ elbow. His grip was quite tight, even though he wasn’t looking at Andrés at all, but was scanning the chaos of the kitchens, his body at full stretch so he could peer through the mass of bodies and steam. “Don’t be ridiculous. You bled all over the place—” he glanced down “—you’re still bleeding. And you got that while helping me, so of course I’m going to…ah, I thought so. With all the time he spends down here, it’s a wonder that Don Fabio ever manages an appointment with him.”

Andrés glanced sharply over, then began to ask what Silva meant, but the other man had already begun to pull them along. Quicker than an eye-blink, the swirl of the kitchens had engulfed them and it was all Andrés could do to keep his toes from being stepped on and his head clear of the very large, gleaming knives that seemed to plunge at them from all directions. At one point he honestly considered simply closing his eyes, and letting what would come, come; it almost seemed preferable to the constant moments of alarm.

Thankfully, they weren’t in the mess for long before Silva suddenly pulled them free, into a relatively quiet corner. He dropped Andrés’ arm to smile brilliantly at the very tall, gawky-looking man poking at an overflowing basket of herbs. “For once you’re not eating something.”

“Not for lack of trying. By the Virgin, don’t Swiss mothers feed their children?” snorted a passing scullery girl.

Senderos flushed rather darkly for a man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, then straightened up. He nodded distractedly at Andrés but gave Silva a faint smile. “I just had my meal. Were you looking for a bit of—”

“No,” Silva hissed, a panicked look crossing his face. But after a furtive glance about assured him that the kitchen staff had more urgent worries, he seemed to relax, and smiled again at Senderos. “No, actually, I’m here to ask a favor. This is Andrés. He’s a valet to Don Josep Guardiola, and he’s hurt himself helping me. I was wondering if you’d mind doing something about his knuckles.”

“It’s nothing that I can’t see to myself,” Andrés protested. By now he thoroughly regretted his notion to spend some time with Silva and see for himself why Xavi would turn so recalcitrant. Cannavaro’s doctor—this was very much out of his depth, and he wasn’t the sort who liked that feeling.

For a moment it seemed like Senderos was willing to leave it at that, but Silva only shook his head in mock-despair—Andrés blinked, oddly reminded of Cesc. And in doing so, he failed to keep Silva from pulling up his injured hand into Senderos’ view.

“See? He’s nearly got to the bone, and he says it’s nothing much. He was helping me carry out some soiled linens, and he caught his hand in a door,” Silva explained. Then he let go of Andrés’ hand and nearly in the same motion, twisted towards the hustling kitchen. “I’ll go find a rag to bind it.”

“And a pot of boiling water. Be sure it’s boiling when you take it—it’ll cool enough by the time you get back here,” Senderos said to Silva’s retreating back. He didn’t speak very loudly, but his voice carried an authority that made Andrés look more closely at him.

Their gazes met, and while Senderos didn’t quite drop his eyes, he did flinch. He pursed his lips, clearly uncomfortable, then gestured awkwardly with his hand. “If you’d like me to look at it, then I’d be glad to. If not…”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.” Though Andrés did reluctantly give his hand to the other man, having decided that refusing at this stage would cause too much of a scene. “I can pay…”

“Oh, no, that’s all right.” Once he had something he could examine, Senderos spoke a bit more firmly, if distantly. His fingers were very light on Andrés’ palm and wrist, so that if Andrés didn’t look at them, it almost felt as if they weren’t there. “It’s not that bad. Knuckles tend to take longer to stop bleeding and scab over, and you’ve got a bit of grit in there that should come out first.”

Andrés frowned. “I can pay. I’m not—I won’t be a debtor.”

At that Senderos looked up. He studied Andrés’ face for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I don’t need the money, but if it would ease your mind, I will tell the poorhouse the donation is from you. Your name is Andrés?”

“I—yes,” Andrés said. He pressed his lips together to make himself think before he went on. “Poorhouse?”

“In town. I’ve been there a few times to help the nuns.” Senderos looked up again, then smiled that tentative smile as he reached past Andrés. “Thank you. This shouldn’t take more than a minute.”

As Andrés turned, Silva put down the pot of steaming water on a sideboard, then proffered a rag to Senderos. But the doctor merely tossed that into the pot, leaving one corner hanging over the rim as he pulled out a small knife from his pocket. He glanced at Andrés, who took a moment to understand and nod, and then used the blunt edge of the knife to carefully push out the bits of rock and wood from Andrés’ knuckles.

It hurt a bit, and for a while Andrés was too preoccupied with clenching his teeth to pay much attention to the conversation Silva and Senderos struck up around him. He did gather that they were rather friendly with each other, and that Silva was infectiously good-natured. A few times Andrés found himself on the verge of snorting without actually having heard what was so amusing.

Once the scrapes were clean, Senderos wrung the excess water from the rag and gave it to Andrés, telling him to hold it against his knuckles for a moment. Then Senderos turned around and did something with a tin of what looked like salve and a few sprigs of herbs pulled from the basket by him. Andrés blinked, then surreptitiously raised his hand and sniffed the rag; Senderos must’ve tossed something into the water when Andrés hadn’t been looking, because it smelled faintly of herbs as well.

“…a bruise. I’ve had worse from the sugar-cane harvest,” Silva was saying. He spoke so quietly that Andrés could barely hear him through the kitchen’s cacophony, but that itself was what got Andrés’ attention. Silva was speaking to Senderos, his head bent low and his body interposing itself between Andrés and the other man. “It doesn’t even hurt now, unless I hit it.”

“But you’re not harvesting cane here,” Senderos replied just as quietly. His shoulders and arms moved rhythmically up and down as he mashed something, and from the direction of his hands rose a pungent, grassy odor intermixed with a more oily scent. “If you’re all right, then I won’t ask any more. But I’m a doctor. If you’re not all right, I can’t…I can’t help but wonder.”

Color came hard and high into Silva’s cheeks. His shoulders and head jerked back, as if he was about to take offense, but instead he dropped his gaze. His hand went to his wrist, drawing Andrés’ eyes to the faint bluish shadow there, then brushed over his thigh as he looked up and around. Andrés quickly turned away, found himself facing an approaching cook, and asked after the next bread-baking.

“I’m fine.” Silva let out an odd little snort, rueful and rather grim. Often he seemed much younger than Andrés, but now Andrés remembered only a year and a few months separated them. “At least, I am now. And I don’t think there shall be a repetition, at least if I can help it. But thank you for asking.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s part of my craft.” Senderos put something down that clinked softly, then murmured to himself in Aragonese-accented Italian. Then he cleared his throat, causing Andrés to look round. He held out a greenish, strongly-smelling paste mounded up on a rag. “You can try this, if you’d like. I find it helps wounds heal faster, and often reduces any scarring.”

Andrés eyed the oily substance, then glanced up at the other man’s face. Interestingly enough, Senderos seemed not hopeful or over-eager, but resigned—as if he expected to be refused. To someone used to the constant hawking and hard patter of marketplace charlatans, it was strangely convincing, and in the end Andrés took the rag. More than a few people had watched the exchange, after all, and if anything horrid happened to him because of the salve, then he or Guardiola would have no difficulty in finding witnesses for trial. “Thank you.”

The doctor nodded, retiring back to his corner—Senderos was a very tall man, but his hunched stance and low-carried head greatly diffused the impact of his height. He began to wipe at his fingers with another rag.

“So I’ll save you a loaf, will I?” said the cook.

Blinking, Andrés turned back, then hastily picked up that conversation as he dabbed a bit of the salve over his knuckles. But he only paid the minimum attention necessary to seem engaged with the cook, instead concentrating on the conversation behind him.

“Doesn’t your lord mind you taking such an interest in all of us? It’s not that I mind, obviously, but…” Silva let his voice trail off. He _was_ young in terms of time at court: a more experienced resident would have disguised his interest a bit better.

Senderos, however, replied in as careful and quiet a tone as even the most vigilant of diplomats would have wished. “Signore Cannavaro is a very generous man, and appreciates the fact that the more people I treat, the more skill I gain to use in his service. He’s also…devout.” For a moment Senderos’ voice drifted lower. “I took a vow some years ago to spend a certain amount of time finding and helping those who are in need and aren’t in a position to seek help for themselves.”

“You’re not a monk, are you?” Silva asked, startled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No. No, though I’ve spent quite a bit of time in monasteries and abbeys,” Senderos replied, his voice warming with amusement. His accent changed slightly, gaining a more Italian music again, then returned to perfect Castilian. “It’s only a—an experience I had, once.”

The salve was cool and soothing on Andrés’ knuckles, but it vanished into his skin with unexpected quickness. Then he ran out of polite chat to make with the cook, who promptly went off to tend a pot, and Andrés was left searching for an excuse to remain where he was. He looked at his hand, then turned about, intending to ask for a cloth to wrap over the skinned knuckles.

Silva appeared to have just lost his battle with his curiosity, and had his chin tucked towards his chest and his eyes fixed on Senderos’ face. “A…an accident?”

The other man looked up with an uncomprehending frown. He even gazed about, as if thinking Silva had been commenting on something happening elsewhere in the kitchen, but he soon realized that that wasn’t it and looked back at Silva. Then he seemed to understand; he shook his head and smiled a little tightly. The regret in his eyes had nothing to do with the earnest young man before him. “Oh, no. Not—I wouldn’t say a failure either. At least with the medicine. But I didn’t…I didn’t like the way it ended. I think I was a little bit of a—coward, I suppose. I’d rather not be that again. Is your hand any better?”

The last was to Andrés, who started as sharply as Silva did. Andrés stuttered something, then started again when Senderos looked calmly up, without a trace of disturbance in his face at catching an eavesdropper. “Better. Yes—yes, it’s…thank you, it doesn’t hurt so much now.”

“Good,” Silva said, taking a step towards Andrés. Nothing except naked relief was in his face, so he seemed to have missed Andrés’ startled moment. “Well, I’m very sorry it happened, and I hope I haven’t kept you too long from your…”

“Oh. Oh, I’ve nothing much to do right now. Cesc is seeing to the little things, and with the weather—” Andrés briefly lifted his eyes to the ceiling, where the faint drumming of rain was beginning yet again “—I doubt Don Josep will want much today.”

Silva nodded, then glanced at Senderos, who’d already returned to whatever he had been doing when they’d arrived. “Thank you, Philippe,” Silva said. “We’ll stop bothering you as well.”

To which Senderos made a surprisingly graceful demurral, and rose again to see them out. He had greenish stains on his fingers and under his nails, which contrasted sharply against the dark wood of the door as he pulled it shut behind him.

He must have been mashing the herbs with his hands, Andrés belatedly realized. At least, Andrés didn’t remember any mortar and pestle on the table by Senderos—he frowned, then looked round at Silva’s voice. “He does seem to know what to do, but he’s quite friendly already with a lot of people, isn’t he? I think I caught Cesc calling him by his Christian name, too.”

“Oh. Well, he tells you not to call him by any title, because he doesn’t have one. Except doctor, but he says that’s not right either since he doesn’t have a university degree,” Silva replied, chagrined and defensive. He fidgeted with his collar, then swept his fingers back to scratch at the side of his jaw. “It’s only that he eats at odd hours, like us. He doesn’t eat with his lord, and he doesn’t work the same times as the other members of Cannavaro’s retinue, apparently. So we’re always coming across each other in the kitchens.”

“I wasn’t criticizing, only observing,” Andrés said mildly. He was lying a bit, and also somewhat regretful of his quick tongue. Cesc was one matter, but Silva belonged to the Queen’s own household and Andrés had no real right to admonish him. And also matters did seem innocent enough, if not of the usual run of things. “Usually an ambassador’s servants are very haughty, and hate coming out of their rooms, in my experience.”

Silva blinked, considering that, and then nodded slowly. Then he drew in a breath, apparently to reply, but something to Andrés’ left caught his eye. He stiffened quite sharply, his hands balling into fists, and for a moment Andrés was put to mind of a bird spotting a cat creeping up on it. But then Silva’s fingers flexed straight down—without losing their tension—and he pulled himself up a little. “What do you want. Don David,” he said, flat and hard.

Andrés turned around and needed a moment himself when he recognized Villa coming towards them. He glanced at Silva again, then silently took a deep breath and stayed where he was, even though Villa was clearly angling for Silva, not for the both of them. “Good afternoon, Don David Villa.”

Villa’s eyes flicked to Andrés. The man obviously hadn’t noticed Andrés before then, and he didn’t bother pretending to do much more than note Andrés’ presence. He nodded curtly and attempted to shoulder past Andrés, who was positioned to block off Silva’s left side, and when that was unsuccessful, he looked a little longer and a little less indifferently at Andrés. But he didn’t back away—instead he merely stopped where he was, uncomfortably crowded shoulder-to-shoulder with Andrés and facing Silva.

When Andrés had first seen him coming, the man had had a face like murder, and that didn’t improve but Villa’s stance did seem to grow more rigid. The man stared at Silva for a moment, and Andrés had to admit Silva surprised him by not flinching under its intensity.

“I apologize,” Villa finally said, stiff and blunt. He abruptly moved his head to the side, cracking a bone in his neck so that it sounded like someone had smashed a tile. Then he straightened again, leaning towards Silva. “I was angry at something else and you happened to be there.”

Silva’s eyes widened, but then he shuttered his shock, the planes of his face smoothing as quickly and coldly as those of a judge about to pronounce his verdict. He shifted back slightly, then bowed before Villa could close in on the new space. It was a very fluid, very elegant and very cutting bow. “It’s not my place to object to the actions of my betters, Don David, so I cannot accept your apology.”

To his credit, considering his reputation for temper and little else, Villa seemed to immediately grasp the undertones. He jerked back as if Silva had hit him, then sucked in a harsh, irritated breath. “Listen, I—”

“I’m also very sorry that I cannot offer any aid to you, as I’m merely a servant,” Silva added. His trailing foot carefully lifted till his weight was completely balanced on his other foot, without so much as a shiver to mark the transition. “Please excuse me, as my duties call.”

Then, in a movement so quick and seamless that Andrés couldn’t make it out, Silva somehow spun himself about on his one foot and then got his other down, so by the time he had his back to Villa, he’d already taken a step away. Another quickly followed, and then another, till he was a good way down the hall and Villa would either have to call after him or chase him to get him back.

Speaking of Villa, he looked utterly stunned when Andrés turned back to him. His face had unknotted from its tense mask to the point that his mouth was even a little open, lips slackly parted as he stared after Silva. Then he even threw his foot forward before he apparently remembered Andrés. Villa gave himself a shake, glancing Andrés’ way, and then abruptly took off in the opposite direction.

After a few moments, Andrés finally recognized that he wouldn’t be puzzling out the incident any time soon. At least not on his own, and so he directed himself towards Guardiola’s rooms. At this time of day, Xavi should be there or nearby, and if he didn’t know about Villa, he would know about—

Andrés slowed his steps, then grimaced and continued walking. While Silva seemed harmless enough, for all his surprises, Andrés still couldn’t bring himself to approve. And it had nothing to do with the Church, as Xavi seemed to think. The man was old enough to look after his own soul, and in this day and age, sometimes it seemed like the only choice one had was to pick one’s path to Hell. But in this case, there surely had to be better ones. Ones that wouldn’t entangle them even more in the snake’s nest that was the royal court than they already were.

* * *

Once he was certain he wasn’t being followed, David stopped in an alcove and caught his breath. For all his brave words, inside he’d been shaking like a leaf in the winter winds and he was utterly relieved to see that his daring hadn’t resulted in a tragedy.

Though he would have to apologize to Andrés later, and possibly even offer some sort of explanation—David winced, then pushed off the wall and continued walking more slowly. Frankly, he would’ve preferred to have forgotten Villa even existed, with all the trouble he’d gotten from the man. And that he might still get, if he wasn’t careful: he didn’t know Andrés very well and didn’t know how close to the actual explanation the man might tolerate. Of course, Xavi seemed to be very close to Andrés, and Xavi had, without pressuring or otherwise making David uncomfortable, made certain things clear…but that was Xavi. On more than one occasion, David had seen the man convince two people on opposite sides of an argument, as they all faced each other, that he was in complete agreement with each of them.

It was a very good thing that Xavi was Xavi, and now David sighed. With relief, since Villa’s blatant behavior might otherwise make David worry that some rumor had spread around about him, and with…a little sadness. Because David liked Xavi a good deal, but—

“Stop running from me,” Villa snapped.

David’s breath snapped back into the roof of his mouth. He leaped back without thinking, then landed awkwardly as his boot-heel twisted in a crack in the floor. His elbow smashed against the wall, making him hiss. Then he slapped out his arm, hoping to catch a handhold, but he’d already fallen too far.

A hard grip seized his forearm and pulled him back up before he’d even finished gasping. Once he had, David slashed out with his hand to keep Villa from grabbing him again, then stumbled blindly backward till he came up against the wall. He gasped again, then glanced up. “Don’t touch me!”

To his surprise, Villa stopped. After another moment, the man even lowered his arm, though he still remained less than two feet away with that hard stare fixed on David. He was breathing hard as well, and there were wet spots on his clothes: he must have cut through a courtyard and looped around, to have come up _in front_ of David.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Villa said after a hard exhale, sounding aggrieved. His right hand moved irritably. “I didn’t mean—”

“Well, you do an awful lot you don’t seem to mean,” David retorted breathlessly. He pushed himself up the wall, then folded his arm over his chest, which was beginning to ache with all the gasping. “You just—chased me down and—you want me to—think—”

Villa nearly rolled his eyes. They actually began to drift sideways, only to flick back to David when David moved. “Because you wouldn’t listen when I wanted to apologize, all right? How else was I going to do that?”

“I don’t know, perhaps by not needing to in the first place? Or understanding that—that I don’t _want_ your apology?” David coughed hard, running out of breath. He leaned against the wall and rubbed at his chest, then at his throat.

“Why not?” Villa asked.

After a moment’s incredulous staring, David decided that the man was being sincere, at least with his confusion. And to be honest, that was closer to what David knew as a noble’s normal behavior. “Because you’re…” David struggled to articulate his exasperation “…because I don’t think you mean it.”

“Well, I do.” And Villa shut his mouth and looked down hard at David, clearly expecting agreement.

“No, you don’t,” David muttered, his temper flaring. He regretted it the moment Villa jerked towards him, eyes flashing—it didn’t come to anything, and in fact, Villa backed up immediately afterward. But David’s heart had still crammed into his throat and he did not enjoy that feeling in the least. “Well, maybe you do. But it’s still meaningless. You—look at what you’re doing now. You’re frightening me again to apologize for the _last_ time you frightened me. You may be sorry about it, but you’re still a bastard.”

Something happened in Villa’s eyes. They didn’t change in size, but they somehow seemed to pull everything in him into them, like a coiling spring. Like the menace of the mouth of a cannon, with its promise of destruction concentrated deep within its darkness.

Then Villa blinked. He squinted a little, and his eyes were eyes again. They even seemed…he awkwardly moved a shoulder, then scratched at his jaw, confirming Silva’s incredulous guess. “I’m sorry about tha—I _am_ sorry. Listen, I’m upset about something else right now and I’m not one of those people who can—can act like what they’re not.”

“Well, then why can’t you just go away till you’re not upset?” David asked. Then he sighed, and shook his head as Villa’s lips parted. “No, I know, I know. You’re _sorry_.”

Villa tilted his head, his eyes narrowing even more. Then his mouth quirked into an odd little smile. “When you’re angry, you’ve got such a mouth for a little groom.”

“You’ve got such poor manners for a great noble,” David retorted. And winced immediately afterward.

Except Villa laughed, and smiled to show his teeth. He shook his head like a teasing old grandmother. “Ah, but I’m not. I’ve barely enough land to keep my title and come to court. Even lackeys like Morientes think they can pity me.”

The mention of Fernando stung David, reminding him that he shouldn’t even be speaking to Villa. He dropped his eyes to the floor to hide his face, then pulled nervously at his belt.

“I don’t know what you heard, but I was never a damned traitor,” Villa said, more soberly. When David looked up, Villa’s smile had vanished and his thick black brows were drawn down again. But he was looking away from David, staring at some point on the wall as if he wished he could bore through it with his gaze. His right foot was restlessly jabbing at the floor; he had very little composure, and shocking bluntness, for his rank. “I trusted in the wrong people, and—and maybe I was a little too young, not knowing everything I should’ve known. But that’s all. I never meant—” he glanced back at David “—I never tried, or thought, to betray the King or the Queen.”

“I haven’t really heard anything about you.” David let his arm drop from his chest, then stood away from the wall. An ache immediately started up in his elbow and hip and he put his hand back to rub at the latter. “Mostly what you’ve told me.”

Villa’s brows arched high. “I can’t believe that. You lot are always passing round information you shouldn’t have, and—”

“You insult me a lot for someone you want to apologize to,” David said tartly. His temper again, since Villa wasn’t actually far from the truth about the habits of courtiers. “I—well, you don’t know much about me. I’ve only been here a few months, and before that I’ve always lived on Gran Canaria. And the news is very slow to reach there.”

“Oh.” The other man blinked, then rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He started to say something, but apparently changed his mind because of something he saw in David’s face. “You’ve always been…but how old are…”

“My family’s been on the islands since the Norman lords. And I don’t know why you’d want to know how old I am.” David had calmed enough to want to be fair, but he still was irritated and Villa had not done much to soothe that. “Why do you keep bothering me, anyway? I _am_ only a groom.”

Villa snorted, his brows rising again. He had a very exasperating way of looking sidelong at one, eloquently expressing both disbelief and contempt. “You handle yourself rather well for that, but I suppose that’s from coming from somewhere you’ve got to do work, and not from bribing your way to a soft post like most of the people here.”

“Groom in the Queen’s Household is not a cheap outlay,” David said stiffly.

After a long moment, Villa’s stern face dissolved into an unexpected chuckle. “You’re determined not to like me, aren’t you. Did I make such a bad first impression?”

“Well—” The answer was easy enough, but somehow David found himself reluctant to actually say it. Perhaps because Villa was still smiling, and it was a cynical, faintly taunting smile, but it had a genuineness to it that David hadn’t seen often since he’d come to court. The man did mean that, at least.

“I suppose so,” Villa continued after waiting a bit longer. He shrugged, but the growing intensity of his gaze belied the nonchalant gesture. “It seems easier these days. Most people _have_ heard of me, and already think the worst. I don’t see the point in being nice when it won’t change their minds about me.”

David looked at the man, and for the first time didn’t see him as a threat or an annoyance, but…Villa wasn’t much older than him. Three or four years, at most, and while Villa’s clothes were cut as a noble’s, they probably had cost little more than David’s. But they looked more well-worn than David’s, even though that seemed to suit Villa in an odd way, with his forceful honesty and rough manners. And Villa’s own appearance did the court no dishonor, at least once one ignored the scowling.

“Anyway, I am going to apologize. Even if you don’t like me, you can’t say I haven’t done that,” Villa finished.

“I thought you already did apologize. Several times.” Once he was certain that the glint in Villa’s eyes was amusement, David risked a slight smile. “Well, I still think you’re…rude, but I try not to hold grudges, so I…er, I accept your apology, Don David.”

Villa blinked, then leaned forward and looked at David so hard that David nearly took back his words. But then Villa grinned so freely and with such pleased surprise that David almost wanted to apologize to him, for making him worry as much as he obviously had been. “It _must_ have been expensive to come here, with the way you are once your back’s up. I hope you don’t lose that when you’ve been here longer. I like you this way.”

David stared, then abruptly looked away and down at the ground. He willed the blood to stay out of his face, but slowly the warmth crept up his throat, till he couldn’t help pressing at his cheek even though that was futile as well. “I should—I have my—”

“Duties,” Villa said, voice suddenly heavy. When David raised his head, he found the other man looking grim again. “What on earth are you doing for her, anyway? Everyone knows she’s dying.”

Reflex made David flinch, then open his mouth to protest. But he saw the contempt in Villa’s eyes and knew that that would be useless—and his temper unexpectedly frayed again. Perhaps Villa disliked the court, and perhaps he had reasons, but that gave him no right to impose his dislike on everyone else. In David’s short time, he’d been treated well, and he would miss it when—if—Queen Isabella died and her household was disbanded. “Well, everyone knows you want to see her before she does. Even I know that.”

Villa’s lips pressed hard together. His chin jutted out truculently and his dark eyes turned white-hot with anger. “What about it? So I want to see her. I’ve got—”

“Isn’t that why you keep running after me, and want so badly to apologize to me? Because I can get in to see her?” David snapped.

He’d said that without thinking, but once they were out on their own, his words took on a life of their own. They grew till they crowded out all the air between David and Villa, and then grew some more so that their sharp edges bit and cut at David. Why had he said—no, he knew why he’d said that. He’d wanted to hurt Villa a little, the way the man had hurt him, and he’d thought for one senseless moment that that was the way to go about it.

“Could you even do that?” Villa finally asked. He had become still, very still save for his eyes that were turbulent storms of bitterness and anger and pain and—hope.

And David hadn’t hurt Villa with his words. For a moment he wished he had. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes, and then he opened them and looked steadily at Villa. He was new to court, yes, but he was no naïf when it came to human nature. Nor was he a thoughtless fool; he knew very well what he had, and how hard he and his family had worked to get it, and he appreciated it all very much.

“No,” David said.

Villa tipped his head back a little. His mouth moved silently, and then he sealed his lips but an indecipherable noise came from his throat. He started to turn, but looked sharply back at David even though David hadn’t done anything. Then Villa made a sort of grimace and abruptly hitched himself around. He was clearly deeply disappointed—anger flared in David at that presumption, but it was oddly dull—but he was also restrained in his show of his mood. At least, according to his standards.

The man went a few steps, then turned back, making David stop halfway through stepping in the opposite direction. Villa’s lips flexed a few times before he finally managed a twisted, seething smile. “Well, you can keep the apology,” he said, and then he walked away without another look.

He’d meant that too, and David appreciated what it meant. But at the same time—David shook his head, reminding himself he barely knew Villa and that what he knew of the man was very unfavorable. Yes, he felt sorry for Villa but Villa was a man who was making his own path, his own way, and David didn’t think he wanted to be in it.

At the end of the hall, David looked behind himself. When he saw no one, he lifted his foot and then put it back down. Then he carefully peered through the doorway into the hallway before him, but he only saw a pair of maids in one end, and a courtier in the other. He was not going to suffer any more surprises, and he was, he determinedly thought, hopeful about that.

* * *

“Oh, my apologies. I didn’t realize someone was using this room,” Cesc said, bowing as low as he could. “Please forgive the interruption—”

“No, it’s all right. We were leaving,” Raúl replied, turning towards the door.

Too sharply, and putting his back to Fernando hardly helped matters, even if Fernando did as good a job of disguising his hurt as he could when he clearly had gotten no more sleep than the last time Iker had spoken with him. Then again, Cesc knew nothing of the undercurrents between those two, so perhaps he had missed that much. Iker could only hope these days; he had too much on his mind to cover up every last misstep Raúl and Fernando made.

He pulled at his robe, which he’d loosened as the room was unusually stuffy, then went to follow Raúl. But Fernando hadn’t moved and so Iker had to linger till the other man noticed and finally got to his feet, and even then Fernando was the last of the three out of the room by a long ways.

Iker dropped back to covertly take his arm, then dragged Fernando up till they were at least level with each other. He glanced over his shoulder, then gave Fernando a sharp jab in the side before releasing the man. “Fábregas is licking this up with his eyes,” Iker hissed. “You could at least pay attention to him.”

At that Fernando’s head came up, and he even seemed on the verge of rebuking Iker when Raúl turned around. “Pardon?”

“I think we may have to go outside,” Iker replied to Raúl. The servants were airing out Raúl’s private chambers, and at this time of day it was very difficult to find anywhere inside that was suitable for a quiet meeting.

Raúl considered it, then nodded and silently turned towards the next door. Fernando, who had abandoned his irritation for naked staring at the man, grimaced and looked away. Then he gave himself a shake and wandered to the right, away from Raúl. “In that case, I think I’ll have to excuse myself to go draft documents. We’ve already discussed my part.”

“Have we?” Raúl asked sharply, pivoting about on his heel. His brows were slightly raised and he pursed his lips as if to continue, only to press them tightly together.

After a long moment, during which Iker was very aware that Cesc—and half-a-dozen others—was still in earshot, Fernando produced a ghostly, sorrowful sort of smile. “Did you wish more from me, Don Raúl?”

“No.” Then Raúl half-turned, absently plucking at his robe. His brows knitted together before he turned further, so Iker but not Fernando could see sadness loosen the tension in the man’s brow. “No, never mind. You’re free to go.”

Nevertheless Fernando lingered a little longer, and even then, walked so slowly away that the thud of his footsteps on the stone floor had no overlap. Iker watched the man go, looking at the slump of his shoulders and back, and then turned to open the door for Raúl and himself.

It was raining heavily outside, and when the blustery wind blew some of it across Iker’s face, he could feel tiny particles of ice in the drops. He and Raúl quickly crossed to a covered porch, where Raúl took up a position overlooking a largely-withered garden, its plants reduced to spindly brown twigs. At first Iker waited, but when it became obvious that Raúl wouldn’t speak, he cleared his throat. “It’ll probably be tonight. I understand they met again, and Villa was spotted near Cannavaro’s chambers today, probably looking things over.”

Raúl’s brow furrowed a little, but he didn’t respond except to pull up the collar of his robe so it shielded the lower part of his face from the wind. He had dark shadows under his eyes, and his fingers as they clenched the cloth of his robe seemed unusually thin.

“Cannavaro’s been informed and has agreed to let us station some men in and around his rooms. There may also be an additional charge of treason—Villa has been paying marked attention to David Silva, and…and Fernando hasn’t asked at all about this, though he knows I’ve been working on something,” Iker said, his frustration suddenly boiling over. He took a step towards Raúl, then another when the other man looked up. “I don’t think—I honestly don’t think Fernando still has any attachment to Villa. You don’t have to worry about that.”

At first Raúl seemed confused, but then his face cleared, only to allow depression to cloud it. He shook his head, the corners of his mouth curling in something that was as little like a smile as the moon was the sun. “Iker…thank you very much for your thorough work, but I wasn’t worrying about that.”

“Well, then why—” Iker stopped himself, forcing the rest of his outburst into a mere long exhale. He stood still for a moment, fists clenched, before abruptly turning to face the garden himself. “I suppose it’s none of my concern.”

He had no answer from the other man, who only continued to gaze down into the dead garden. Once the wind briefly changed direction and pelted their faces with sleet, but while Iker hastily wiped off the freezing wetness with a corner of his robe, Raúl seemed impervious to the rain. He did put out his hand, but only to rest it on the balustrade as he leaned over that, peering at something below.

“You can’t just drop him,” Iker finally said. After he’d finished rubbing his face, he began to lower his hand—and the cloth did indeed slide down, but a sudden ache near his temple recalled his fingers. He pushed at the bony ridge just under the temple, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “For the love of the Virgin—for the sake of your other arrangements, at the very least, you should—”

“I thought you disliked Fernando,” Raúl remarked, turning around. His brows were slightly raised, but he still was looking through Iker instead of at him.

Iker scrubbed his fingers over his left eye, then pulled them away as he lifted his head. A bit of rain got into his eyes and he squeezed them shut against the sting, then sighed. “I don’t dislike him. I dislike the risks you take with him. And yes, I know what I sound like right now, but if you want my advice about how to handle matters, then you’ll at least give him the hope that you will consider a reconciliation. You shouldn’t have taken up with him, but since you did, you can’t now pretend that you didn’t.”

For a moment Raúl’s gaze snapped to Iker, hard and flinty, and Iker was reminded that the man had made a reputation at war before he’d made one at court. But then Raúl turned back around, shaking his head. “My memory is fine, Iker. And I think the other arrangements will be no problem. Considering you don’t find Fernando a concern in regards to Villa, I’m surprised—”

“He’s loyal now, but what happens when he comes to see that you won’t relent and he’ll get no more favor from you? Disappointment and bitterness can be just as effective at goading a man as ambition,” Iker snapped, swallowing his nerves. He did respect the other man’s reputation, and even more, his actual deeds, but his duty was to provide an honest opinion. That _was_ his way of showing respect, and if it garnered him an adverse reaction, then at least he knew he’d not failed in his responsibilities. “Villa will be seen to by tonight. But your lands and concessions? Your—”

“Fernando is not _out of favor_ with me.” Raúl’s voice seemed to whip around his hunched form like the wind biting their cheeks. His heavy cloak muffled his shape, but even so, a stiffening was detectable. On the balustrade, his fingers slowly curled inwards against the dark grey stone. “Moreover, he knows that.”

“As far as I can tell, he knows that you can’t even stand to look at his face. That seems like very little favor to me.” Iker began to inhale, then spat out the half-breath as his anger abruptly crested. He pushed down on his heels till his legs started to shake, then kicked sharply out.

The movement made his heel twist on the wet stone and he had to take a step to regain his balance. He took a few more to dissipate his temper’s force, then slowly circled back to Raúl, who had half-turned to look at him without any particular expression. A little embarrassed, Iker glanced away.

“Iker,” Raúl said softly. A moment after Iker looked up, Raúl came to stand before Iker. He put up his hands, and after a little hesitation, carefully tugged out a fold of Iker’s robe that had become twisted about his neck. “Iker, I do appreciate very much what Fernando means. But I’m also angry at him right—I _can’t_ look him in the face, when I know very well that I need him. It’ll pass, and when it does, then I’ll speak with him. But until then, I see no point in risking more by attempting to confront him when I can’t think clearly.”

“Well…Don Raúl, please, I can see to…” Iker politely brushed off Raúl’s hands and attended to his own clothing. He let his hands linger a little longer than they needed to before he raised his head again. “Well, as long as there will be a resolution. I apologize for being so stubborn on the point, but I worry. The Queen is doing worse by the day, and I’m beginning to suspect that Cannavaro is here to encourage Ferdinand to involve himself in Italy again. And then there’s Inzaghi, whom I’m still uncertain about…I suppose we’ll learn about that after tonight.”

Raúl had begun to smile, albeit in a lopsided fashion, but at the mention of Inzaghi—or perhaps the coming night—he sobered again. His gaze flicked past Iker’s shoulder, then slowly returned to Iker’s face. “I wonder.”

“Pardon?”

“Admittedly I haven’t spoken much to the man, but this entire…it seems uncommonly clumsy for him. And I can’t see how it fits into his proposal either, unless it’s wholly an Italian matter and has nothing to do with us. I suppose that might be it. Cannavaro’s not unknown to Milan,” Raúl said after a moment, frowning. Then he moved his shoulder in a dismissive gesture and passed by Iker’s left, heading back towards the door. “The whole idea seems much more suited to Villa’s temperament—direct but impulsive, with little thought for the long future.”

“Well, one has to work with the tools one has,” Iker suggested, turning to follow the other man.

Raúl glanced back, then passed one hand over his damp hair as he briefly slowed his pace and looked up at the surrounding buildings. “But Inzaghi has Vieri with him, if he wishes to be so crude. I can’t believe that he’d bring Vieri merely to bed every loose woman in town.”

“Do…do you believe Villa’s acting on his own, then? I do have witnesses who can place him with Inzaghi,” Iker said, frowning himself. He kept pace with the other man, but ignored their surroundings in favor of reviewing what information he had, trying to see the flaw that Raúl did. “At any rate, we’ll be certain to ask about it.”

“Be careful how you do that,” Raúl said abruptly, and then came to a stop that was just as sharp. He looked hard at Iker, so Iker reflexively nodded before he even understood why he should. Then Raúl sighed, closing his eyes as if he was in pain. “I don’t want to offend Inzaghi right now. I only want to know. And I don’t want this to be…to be noticeable. First of all, even before knowing, I do _not_ want a scandal. Not now, when Isabella is failing so rapidly. It would serve no good purpose, and I don’t care for Villa enough to let him be the match that sets Castile afire again.”

Iker nodded again, then made an obeisance when that seemed too light a gesture. “As you wish, Don Raúl. I’ll see to it.”

* * *

“Oh, so I have finally learned my way ar—” Philippe suddenly fell silent.

Cesc looked at the other man, then looked around them. It was very late and except for them, the halls were empty. Furthermore Cesc heard nothing, and with the stonework even the smallest sound tended to echo quite a bit. But Philippe apparently did, or so it seemed from the tense, alert way he was holding himself. He was so still that Cesc had to look at him to remember that the man was there, and he—he _was_ taller. For the first time since they’d met, Philippe was drawn up to his full height.

Some time passed and Cesc still heard nothing, but he’d come to know Philippe a bit and he was reluctant to ignore the other man’s reaction. He did move, but as quietly as he could and only enough so that he could see Philippe’s face; Philippe didn’t turn to look at Cesc, but his arm swung slightly so it wouldn’t be in Cesc’s way. Philippe’s eyes were fixed straight ahead of them, on the end of the hall, but nothing was there save for a large tapestry that was fluttering a little under a draft.

Then a door slammed violently, and the air it stirred up made the side of the tapestry ripple. Many different voices clamored loudly, then were muffled just as suddenly—they’d come from whichever room had just had its door abused. Another vicious thud came, softer than the first, but because of that it didn’t stun Cesc into numbness. He started, then realized that Philippe had left.

The other man had only rounded the corner, Cesc was relieved to see when he rushed down the hall. Cesc started to call out to him, but just then a door whipped open and an outstretched arm thrust past it, only to jerk back inside as the unmistakable sound of a drawn sword reached Cesc’s ears. He shut his mouth, then instinctively dove behind the still-fluttering tapestry.

Thankfully, it wasn’t hung flat against the wall, but from a bar that jutted out a few inches, and Guardiola’s constant need for meals at odd hours had kept Cesc very lean from running about so often. He fitted nicely behind the cloth, though he still was careful to crouch down as low as he could, and to keep near the edge so he could dart into the hall if he needed to. Only then did he turn back to the hall.

Philippe had apparently continued to walk forward, and now was right before the door. “I am Signore Cannavaro’s personal doctor, and my chambers are here,” he was saying, low but steady. He was still holding himself very straight and tall, although Cesc could just glimpse Philippe’s hand and it was curled up so his fist was nearly inside his sleeve. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something, but I was returning to—”

Near the end Philippe’s voice gained a faint nervous tremor, but whoever was questioning him actually began to apologize, with a great deal of anxiety. Philippe’s hand uncurled slightly, so Cesc glimpsed a flash of metal, and then it performed an odd little up-flick and twist, freeing its now-empty fingers from the sleeve. Another voice intruded—Cannavaro, with that thick accent. Whatever he said seemed to settle the matter, and Philippe went inside without any further challenge.

People were still talking with great excitement, and the occasional thump still reached Cesc’s ears, but no one came out though the door remained open. Cesc bounced on his heels to keep the blood flowing in his legs, then dropped forward to support himself on his toes and the tips of his fingers. He poked his head a little beyond the tapestry, but quickly withdrew when he thought the noises were increasing in volume.

When nothing came of that, Cesc let out a silent sigh of disappointment and began to study the hall. Unfortunately it was quite bare, and offered no closer cover that he felt would be sufficient. Either he stayed where he was and hoped that—

\--the door shuddered, then swung towards him. He saw the bent back of a man arch out, then be dragged back inside. Then the man showed himself again, this time turned towards Cesc. He was hauling at something that was giving him a great deal of resistance and his face was red with rage as well as anger. His boots scraped loudly as he was pulled half-in, then clicked as he snarled, drew back an arm and then punched it forward, short and hard. The resistance abruptly stopped, and the man was able to drag out a slumped form by the arm. Another man had the other shoulder, but that obviously afforded a bad grip, so the man grabbed the elbow instead, roughly yanking at the body so its face briefly flopped into sight.

Then the two men towed the third about till they were all facing away from Cesc. They paused a moment to discuss something before heading off at a punishing clip—at least to the unconscious man, whose knees and feet were jolting heavily over the floor.

Cesc gradually noticed he was biting his lip. He forced himself to stop, then grimaced as the feeling flooded into the injured spot. Then he looked up—absently, but as it turned out, it was a lucky decision, for Philippe had come into the hall. To watch the men leaving, one hand gripping the edge of the door so hard that its knuckles were white. Then pink, and then white again as Philippe slowly flexed his fingers.

He stood there till the trio had disappeared from sight. Then he withdrew a little, turning forward so Cesc could see the grave, troubled expression on his face. His hand slid down the door a bit before he turned—he stopped when he was looking in Cesc’s direction and Cesc hastily ducked his head.

But a moment later, Cesc heard the door shut. He waited, but the voices faded: Philippe and Cannavaro and whoever else was in the room were moving away from the door. Apparently Philippe thought Cesc had left, or…at any rate, he wasn’t coming out to look for Cesc, and Cesc knew a chance when he saw one.

Twice on his way back, Cesc had to stop to catch his breath. He was trying not to be conspicuous even though he’d run into only a few minor servants, but his feet seemed to increase their pace on their own no matter what he did. In the end, he just let them do as they willed, and once he was safely back in Guardiola’s chambers, he collapsed on the nearest cot in the antechamber and gasped huge lungfuls of air. His chest burned badly with each one, but he kept gasping till the pain slowly faded. More pain came to his attention: aches and twinges in all of his limbs, because his muscles were knotted up as tightly as a miser’s purse-strings. Cesc attempted to relax, only to have them seize up even more.

He waited a little while, then tried again and this time he was able to convince his body to slacken. He let himself lie there, breathing very slowly, till he’d counted to thirty, and then he got up.

The door opened when he was pouring himself some wine at the sideboard. Starting, Cesc allowed a few drops to slop down the side of the cup. He put the pitcher down, cursing under his breath, and reached for a rag. Then he pulled back his hand and instead picked up the cup, and drank a good draft before he finally set about cleaning up the spill.

By then Xavi had shut the door, and was leaning against it with an inquiring brow cocked at Cesc. “You’re not even watering it?”

“I was walking with Phil—Cannavaro’s doctor back to his rooms, and some men dragged David Villa out of there,” Cesc said. He grimaced at how rough he sounded and drank some more wine, then coughed into his hand. “Don’t get upset at me—Don Josep asked me to speak to Philippe and see if he and Cannavaro would mind a meeting, and I was only doing that.”

“He…” Xavi shook his head sharply, then pressed his hand over his eye and part of his cheek. “Cesc, I’m not going to be mad at _you_ when you’re telling me a noble’s been dragged off in the middle of the night. Whose men? What was _Villa_ doing there? Did they—”

“No, they didn’t see me. Well, Philippe knew I was there, but I think he figured I ran off when I heard the noise. I was hiding behind a tapestry and he was…he didn’t see me, anyway.” If he had, he surely would’ve come back out to find Cesc. Surely. “I don’t know why Villa was there, but the men who took him were from Madrid, by their accents. I didn’t stay to see where they went.”

Xavi snorted and pushed off the door. “I would hope you’d have that much sense,” he muttered as he crossed the antechamber. He knocked softly at the inner door, then turned his head towards it. “All right, you’ll stay here for tonight—please don’t try to argue with me about this, because I’m not going to put up with it this time.”

“I wasn’t about to,” Cesc muttered. He looked at the remaining wine in his cup, then put the cup down as his stomach abruptly lurched. _Auto de fés_ were bloodier, but something about the way it’d happened…it’d been so _quiet_ , actually. Only a little fuss, and he hadn’t heard anything about Villa and Cannavaro, and normally he would have had some idea of why something was happening. “So—”

“When Andrés comes back, tell him and then tell him he’ll be doing for Don Josep tonight. I’ll be out, I expect,” Xavi replied.

Just then Guardiola called for whoever it was to come in. Xavi twisted the handle and pulled open the door, then slipped inside. After a long moment, Cesc let out the breath he’d been holding. He looked blankly about himself till his eyes ran across the half-cleaned spill on the sideboard, and then he sprang into nervous action, mopping that up and cleaning out his cup.

Probably he should have taken his time with it, since he finished long before Xavi came out, and then all Cesc had to do was sit on the cot and wait for Andrés. Cesc did sit, but it wasn’t long before he was kicking his heels against the floor, utterly bored.

But he didn’t think about leaving. For once he was happy to listen to Xavi about that.

* * *

At first Fernando thought he was imagining things. He’d had another bad night, after all, and the day before he’d been having difficulty with concentrating on matters—that was why he was up so early, trying futilely to complete yesterday’s work. But as he sat up and looked out the window again, he heard Silva’s voice and he knew then that it wasn’t a mere phantasm of the mind. It was—he paused, his hand on the sill. Then he leaped to his feet, swearing, and hurried out of his room.

It originally looked as if the men had been trying to persuade Silva to go with them, but by the time Fernando made it outside and across the courtyard, one of them had gone so far as to seize Silva’s arm. The armful of linens Silva was carrying prevented him from evading them, though he continued to protest as they none-too-gently ushered him through a small side-door. When Fernando saw the door closing, he started to call out, then stopped himself so he wouldn’t waste his breath.

Instead he threw himself across the intervening space and just caught the edge of the door with his fingers before it shut. He immediately jerked it open, then punched the face that appeared on the other side before the man could react. Fernando glanced blindly about, then took a longer look about the place, which he knew well. In more joyous times, it’d been used to store great casks of wine and beer that Raúl’s family imported from their own lands, but the Queen’s state meant that celebrations had to be curtailed and so it should have been empty.

It clearly wasn’t. Harsh voices and dull, menacing thuds were rising up the narrow staircase before Fernando, and then Silva’s voice came again. The words were indistinct but the shock and horror were not.

Fernando stooped to the man he’d hit and jerked free the man’s sword, then went down the stairs as quickly as he could. He didn’t bother to disguise his approach, and when he’d emerged into the first of the subterranean chambers, he saw that he had no need to: everyone’s attention was fixed on the man tied to the chair in the center of the room.

Villa saw Fernando. The seething, pained glitter in his eyes flickered, but then he wrenched his head about and spat at the feet of the man nearest him. He snorted, his contempt unbruised. “Which shows you know _nothing_ , like I said. This little boy? His ass is pretty, but then, I can’t begrudge a sick old woman a little comfort, given what her husband’s—”

The slap was open-handed and rocked Villa so hard that his chair began to tip over, and the man standing behind him had to pull it back. That was done none-too-gently, and even Villa couldn’t help a grimace. It looked like the grimace alone pulled viciously at his bruised face.

“Is that why he was seen with you?” From the third man, one of the pair holding onto Silva’s arms. “Were you arranging an—”

“I don’t know what he was doing!” Silva said, his voice rising and then cracking. “He was confusing, and I didn’t know—I don’t know—what are you doing—”

“What _are_ you doing?” Fernando drawled. Then he banged the sword against the wall, just as they were all turning towards him. It made an ear-screeching rasp, and then an even louder clatter as he let it drop from his hand. He walked forward till he was level with the man on Silva’s right; they were of a height, but the other man seemed to be having difficulty meeting Fernando’s gaze. “Are you all complete _idiots_? This is a groom of the Queen’s Household! What are you doing? You’re holding him against his will and subjecting him to some kind of interrogation, and I’m quite sure that she never authorized such a—”

“We’ve got permission, Morientes.” The man on Silva’s left released Silva’s arm to square up to Fernando. He looked vaguely familiar…from the household of one of Raúl’s uncles, Fernando remembered. One of those men who’d been bred to the battlefield the way hounds were to the hunt, and who was fantastically, stupidly loyal as a result. “You want to know about it, you go ask—”

Fernando had to punch him as well. Granted, at this point Villa knew very well who was behind this, and Silva would likely figure it out at some point, but there was no reason to give them unequivocal confirmation of it. And to be honest, Fernando’s temper had frayed its last strand. He’d erred, yes, but he had had—reason. An explanation, at least; it hadn’t simply been a whim, and he at least wanted Raúl to know that, but the man wouldn’t even look at him, and now Raúl was…was involved in something that Fernando knew he’d regret.

The man fell like a sack of flour. The other one holding Silva made a slight movement, but he hurriedly retreated when Fernando wheeled on him. As for the two guarding Villa, they stayed where they were; Fernando identified them now as men who’d been longer at court, and who presumably had more of a sense of diplomacy, or at least a sense of when to stay out of a matter. After a last warning look at them, Fernando reached out and took Silva by the shoulder.

At first Silva came quite easily, but they hadn’t yet reached the staircase when he began to struggle, digging in his heels and shaking off Fernando’s hand. Then he tried to push aside Fernando’s arm when Fernando simply grabbed the back of Silva’s neck. “Wait—what about—”

“David did you a favor there. Don’t spit on it,” Fernando hissed, yanking Silva into the staircase.

Silva looked sharply up, then twisted to look behind himself. He did stop resisting Fernando, but he still kept looking back till they were well past the bend in the steps, when Silva wouldn’t have been able to see Villa anymore.

Once they’d reached the door, Fernando gave the prone body there a kick to settle its weak stirrings, then turned Silva to face him. He bent down, forcing the other man to meet his eyes. “Now look, go to…to the laundresses,” he said, glancing belatedly at the linens Silva still clutched. “Give them those, then go do what you’d normally do. If someone notices you’re a bit late, just say you ran into—”

“You’re not going to help him.” Silva stared at Fernando. His eyes were still wide with shock, but they were by no means devoid of thought. And when Fernando didn’t react, Silva’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to leave him with them.”

Fernando blinked. His reply died on his tongue, and he found himself glancing down before he realized it. When he made himself raise his head, Silva still had that strangely unsurprised gaze fixed on him.

“Are they going to kill him?” Silva asked after a moment, too calmly.

“I don’t…” Fernando jerked up, hearing a noise outside. Then he pulled Silva to the side, out of sight. “Listen, just—Iker.”

“Fernando.” Iker stopped on the threshold, plainly surprised. Then the beginnings of irritation stirred in his eyes, only to be replaced by astonishment when Silva twisted from Fernando’s grip and stepped out. “ _Silva_?”

Silva glanced up a little jerkily, but then he put his head down and eased himself around Iker as quietly and casually as he would have any other time. He was even careful to step over the body lying across the doorway. For a moment Fernando had to stare, and then he shook his head, snorting. He’d always liked the youth, but he saw now that he didn’t know Silva very well at all.

A cleared throat brought Fernando’s attention back to Iker, who had his mouth open. Fernando didn’t give him the opportunity to make it his inquiry. “You idiot, do you want to get us all executed for treason? Keeping Villa _in_ the palace, this close to Raúl’s room, and letting those fools drag Silva down here to question him—and what were they going to do if they heard anything suspicious? Kill Silva? My God, actually, with at least one of them a mere ‘good morning’ would be enough, and then there we all are—”

“I didn’t tell them to do that! I didn’t—they made Silva come down here?” Iker jerked half-about to look distractedly out the doorway, then started as if he hadn’t known it was there. Then he lunged forward and yanked the door shut. “I didn’t—I told them to ask Villa about certain things, and—and how did you find out about this?”

“Because I was watching from my room’s window when they snatched Silva right out of the courtyard. God’s blood, Iker. Do you have no damned sense?” Fernando snarled. “You told them, and then you…did you just leave them to figure out the details themselves? You let that heartless bastard from Hierro’s household be in charge? He’s a leashed murderer! He’s not going to think about the consequences.”

“Well, I—he’s loyal and he wouldn’t balk, all right? And I didn’t want to leave it without being there myself, but I’ve duties and—and thanks to your damned argument with Raúl, I’ve got to do everything now and I can’t—I don’t—” As he talked, Iker’s hand rose and fell in time with the uneven rise and fall of his voice, till it suddenly grabbed at his hair. At the same time his voice dissolved into a sudden burst of an exhale, almost but not quite a hiss. He raked his nails over the top of his head, then flung down his arm to stare at Fernando, frustrated and shaken and frightened. “At least I’m trying to do what I should be doing, carrying out my duties instead of worrying about outside concerns.”

Fernando paused a moment, because Iker was young for this and because yes, Fernando did have to take some fault for allowing matters to come to this point. He’d known the gist of what Raúl and Iker had been planning, and hadn’t made any attempt to intrude out of fear that it’d harden Raúl’s opinion of him and Villa. And he’d known Iker wasn’t up to the task, not in the way that Raúl would want it done.

But Iker was old enough to have known that as well, and to have asked Fernando of his own accord or to have raised an objection to Raúl. He had to learn when and where his damned duty called for him to cross his lord, if he was truly going to be of any service. “That’s because you’ve lived at court your whole life. You think everything happens here, in this little box where it’s all symbols and no substance,” Fernando said as he turned around. “I’m going to send up the men and then I’m going to wait down with Villa till you come back with Raúl. He’ll damn well talk to me now.”

“Because you’ve substance?” Iker asked. He was aiming for bitter, but the tremble in his voice obscured everything else.

“Because I’ve lived away from court, and out there you don’t have symbols. You have life and death and neither of them fit nicely into little boxes, like you want them to do.”

With that, Fernando went down the stairs and curtly told the men Iker was waiting. The ones still standing made to leave and Fernando called them back, then had them carry out the unconscious man. He watched them go, and listened to their footsteps fade into the damp echoes of the chamber.

“I didn’t need your damned…damned pity.”

Fernando closed his eyes, took a breath, and then turned around to look at David. The man had a fresh bruise, shaped like a blunt-fingered hand, rising across his cheek. More bruises marked both temples, his jaw and the side of his neck. One over his eye had split open and already scabbed over, and where his shirt was torn open to show his chest and most of his right shoulder, Fernando could see the ends of lash-marks.

“David,” Fernando said quietly. He lifted his foot and David tried to work his lips back from his teeth. But the man couldn’t manage a snarl, and so Fernando came forward till he was standing before the chair. After another moment, he crouched down; with how badly David was slumped in his bindings, they were nearly at eye-level. “I can’t get you out of this.”

“But you still feel sorry for me.” Even without the snarl, David imbued his tone with contempt so thick that it dripped from his swollen lips. He snorted, then half-hid his flinch. “I knew what I was doing. I don’t know what that bastard or _that_ one—” this time he did snarl, and the flash of his eyes said it was worth the pain “—was doing, but I’m no fool. I knew what I was risking.”

The chair creaked and the ropes groaned, drawing Fernando’s hand towards them. Then he stopped, and looked at his fingers and at the space between them and the nearest rope, wrapped so tight around David’s shin that it’d almost completely sunk into the flesh around and beneath it.

David laughed, hoarse and bitter, when Fernando withdrew his hand. “You know what I hate most? I hate that you—you should know, of all people, how damn useless regret is. You should just act honestly, and not bother with this pitying. Whatever you choose to do. Even if it’s González, then God damn it, just choose and be done with it. You can’t have me back. Not now.”

“I do know,” Fernando said reflectively. He put his hand down on the floor, then lifted it to rest on his knee. “But I can’t help but be sorry, David. It’s what happens when you know what you had, and let go.”

“I’d respect you more if you weren’t sorry,” David muttered.

“Really?” Fernando looked up. Then he looked aside, exhaling—because he couldn’t laugh, but laughter would have been the closest to a fitting response. It wasn’t amusing, but it was ridiculous, and laughing was what one did with the ridiculous. Should do.

A wet, rumbling noise made Fernando glance back just as David twisted his head over and spat at the floor. Then David leaned back in the chair, head slightly tipped back so he was looking down through his lashes at Fernando. “You’re not going to be happy.”

“Well, that’s why I went back when he sent for me,” Fernando said. He smiled at David’s puzzled expression, with his lips pressed shut. “I was happy with you. I hope you know that. It’s why…why I feel so much regret now, because that was a gift and you’re not a—” he smiled a little more broadly as David snorted in agreement “—not a giving man, in most ways. But…I don’t live to be happy, David. Happiness and love aren’t the same thing.”

“Not when you’re a servant.” David spat out the last word. Spittle stuck to his lips, then drew out long, dangling threads as it slowly began to drip off them.

“I know, and I serve this country. I serve Castile, and I serve Don Raúl. But you can be happy and not know peace. If I hadn’t come back, I may still have been happy or I may not have been. But I would never have been at rest.” Fernando watched the other man’s expression for a few moments, then shook his head. “Well, if you don’t understand, I’m sorry. But that’s the best I can explain.”

Something crackled and they both looked round, but it only proved to be the torch on the wall. Twisting his head back and forth, David threw his chest against his bonds till they creaked in protest. His bare feet rasped over the floor as he pushed down on them, but he abruptly dropped back just as Fernando was beginning to rise. A long, tired exhale issued from his mouth as he let his face tip towards the ceiling. “You know, I told Patricia to try to be happy.” He tilted his head just enough to look at Fernando, then jerked his chin back. “When she—her father married her off. A good match, lands and all that, and I know the man and he won’t treat her badly. I still love her, but I can’t—can’t do anything for her. She can do for herself, she’s no weak fool, but I didn’t want her to think…she had to be miserable for me. It didn’t make me feel any better to think of her being miserable.”

Fernando began to say that he hadn’t heard of the marriage, but swallowed the comment because it was foolish. Instead he merely waited, and after another moment, David sighed and lifted his head. The anger was still there, simmering deep in his eyes, but so was melancholy. He’d never been simply a hot temper; if he had, Fernando would have found him eminently forgettable.

“I don’t think you’re as good as her at looking after yourself,” David said, a little mockery slipping into his tone. He paused for a moment, the muscles of his throat flexing as he struggled with the next few words. When they finally came, they were raspy and slow, bearing the scars of the effort needed to expel them. “And I don’t think he’ll do for you like I could have. But don’t be miserable, you idiot. That’ll…it’ll irritate me more than your regretting does.”

The first time Fernando tried to reply, he couldn’t quite manage it. He tucked down his chin and cleared his throat, and tried again. “Thank you, David.”

The other man only snorted, and wrenched absently at his bonds again. A pained hiss escaped him as his strength ran low, but he still had enough will to bend a piercing look on Fernando. “One other thing. David Silva. He doesn’t have anything to do with this, honestly. I don’t know what they were thinking—”

“I know. They’re…” Fernando waved his hand in disgust “…he’ll be left alone. I swear that he will be.”

“As long as they don’t touch him,” David said. His tone was a little odd. When Fernando looked up, David did meet his gaze, but there was more than a touch of defensiveness to it. “I’m tied to a damn chair and likely dead by morning, Fernando. Don’t act like _I_ could do anything to him.”

Fernando surprised himself with a laugh. Then he shook his head and some hair fell into his eyes, so he put up his hand to push it away. “David, I don’t think he even likes you. At least, when I saw you two…”

“I know,” David snapped. Then he exhaled and stared morosely over Fernando’s shoulder. His eyes carried a surprising amount of disappointment, considering the pair of them couldn’t have met more than…David’s gaze went back to Fernando, its intensity shriveling any thought Fernando had about teasing the man. “Well, I did what I did. I had to.”

“Then you really should understand, and let me have _my_ regrets in peace,” Fernando said, rising.

He leaned forward and wiped his finger over David’s lip, cleaning off the spittle that had still been hanging there. David went very still, staring up at him, and then the man’s mouth moved slightly against Fernando’s finger. And they were both set on different paths, and regrets or no regrets, neither of them would be turning aside, but for a moment Fernando paused.

Then Fernando heard something, and began to turn only to have the floor suddenly rush up at him. He tried to put out his hand to stop it, but he seemed to be moving oddly slow. But it didn’t matter, after all: the world went black just before he hit the floor.

* * *

David winced as Morientes fell onto the ground, then stooped down and quickly felt over the man’s head. He found a swelling spot but no blood or broken bone, and when he held his fingers before Morientes’ nose, he felt the man’s breath coming strongly enough. He still wished he hadn’t had to do that, but on his way back around, he’d seen Casillas and Don Raúl crossing the courtyard. Casillas had left guards, but only by the door and not in the cellar, where David had returned via another entrance that ordinarily wasn’t used. They wouldn’t notice anything till they’d gotten inside, but that still didn’t leave him much time.

He took out his boot-knife and looked over Villa’s bonds, then attacked the few he thought were crucial. Thankfully he’d guessed right, and moments later the ropes fell in pieces to the ground. Villa nearly did as well—his limbs had probably stiffened up from cramp and injuries.

The man still could move enough to grab back at David when he caught Villa, which helped a little as David immediately started dragging them further into the cellar. But Villa couldn’t walk very well, and he was taller and heavier than David. And while David did do a good deal as a royal groom, very little of it could be called hard labor, so his muscles had weakened a bit since he’d left the Canaries. He did what he could, but they weren’t going to make it outside before Casillas came back.

“Where in God’s name did you come from?” Villa grunted, pulling at David.

David hissed at him to keep him quiet, then felt Villa trying to get an arm over David’s shoulders. He ducked down and under the arm without stopping, then grimaced as he heard a faint voice from behind them. It sounded startled—he firmly repressed the panicked edge to his thoughts, then made himself stop and look around.

They wouldn’t even be able to make it to the door he used, but these vaults had other doors that he remembered passing. Not just now—he’d been too busy running—but before, when Xavi had taken him through it as a shortcut. And they should be near…they were near one. It was almost pitch-dark in the cellar, but when David squinted, he could just make out the outlines of the door. He hauled Villa about, then dragged the man as fast as he could to it.

The door looked like it hadn’t been used in years: cobwebs made a thick sticky layer over it, and David almost had to close his eyes to bear it as he frantically clawed them down. Then he tried the handle, praying that it wasn’t locked—it wasn’t. After a hard push, the handle turned and David could hear grinding as the bolt slid back, and with a relieved breath, he yanked at the door.

His arms nearly pulled out of their sockets. The door came out of its frame about an inch, then stuck. David hadn’t had his feet braced and the sudden stop made him skid into the door, shoving it partly back in—he cursed and hastily scrambled back, then jerked at the door again. It shuddered, but stubbornly wouldn’t give, and he bit his lip as a whole host of fears suddenly descended on him. He was _not_ panicking.

He was, in fact, being shoved to the side. At first he thought that Villa had lost his grip on the wall where David had leaned him, but then David saw that the man was clinging to the door handle. He put out a hand and Villa threw himself back into David, nearly knocking them both over. For a moment, David badly wanted to scream at Villa.

But when he straightened up, the door was standing open.

David inhaled sharply and looked at the man slumped in his arms, his chest beginning to hurt. Then he heard a shout somewhere behind them and shook himself, then hauled them through the door. He paused to shut the door, then resumed dragging Villa up the staircase that’d been behind it.

He had no idea where the stairs would lead and was immensely grateful when he came to the top and found himself in a storage room. This one did look regularly-used, with its contents neatly organized: strings of onions hanging from the ceiling told David roughly where he was, and also banished his gratitude so worry and fear could replace it. At this time of day, plenty of people would be coming around here, and—

—the door began to open. David finally succumbed to panic and dropped Villa, who grunted in pain and rolled over onto one side, curling up. Then he seized David’s ankle as David started towards the door. “What…”

“ _Ssssh_ ,” David hissed down. He looked frantically about, then got hold of a huge basket of potatoes and shifted it to block Villa from view just as light flooded into the room.

David looked up, and Xavi was staring back in surprise at him. Then the other man blinked a few times, and came into the room while David was still trying to formulate some sort of explanation. In all honesty, David actually thought Villa had left blood or something on him, and that Xavi had already guessed what was happening.

“David,” Xavi said, frowning a little. He paused, looking oddly uncomfortable. “Listen. I…I don’t want to pry, but I’ve heard some odd things…well, Andrés said the other day that he watched you and Don David Villa have a…confrontation.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” It took a moment for David’s scattered thoughts to pull together and allow him to recall the incident. He stared straight at Xavi, not daring to look down. “Oh, it wasn’t anything much. He was—rude to me, that’s all.”

Xavi pursed his lips, clearly not believing that, but he didn’t push the point. “Well, please don’t spread this around, because I’m not sure what exactly is the matter, but…if you did have some concerns about Villa, you might not need to worry about him.”

But Fernando was of _Castile_ , was David’s first thought. It didn’t make sense for Xavi to be working with—he was of Aragon, and anyway he wasn’t that sort of—David didn’t know what to think. His mind simply stopped.

“But as I said, I don’t know what’s going on. Cesc saw something strange and I’m still looking into it, but I’ll let you…what is that?” Xavi’s eyes dropped. Then he looked over David again. “What have you been doing? You’re…are those cobwebs…”

The relief at realizing Xavi had had nothing to do with the cellar made David stagger, it was so overwhelming, and perhaps that was what first drew Xavi’s eye. And once captured, Xavi’s attention was difficult to shake. He continued to come forward even as David stammered out some nonsense, and then he bent over the basket.

In desperation, David threw himself at the other man. He got Xavi’s shoulder just as Xavi inhaled sharply, then slapped his hand over Xavi’s mouth as his balance tipped and he fell onto the other man. His hip landed on the potatoes, then slid off and he and Xavi crashed into the nearby wall. “Don’t!” David whispered fiercely. “Don’t—”

He glanced over his shoulder. Villa had gotten off the floor and was hanging onto the side of the basket, with something in his hand. Something like a large, heavy-looking pestle, and Villa was staring at Xavi like…David violently shook his head, then moved around to put himself between the other two men.

But he had to take his hand off Xavi’s mouth to do that, and so he immediately started hissing, trying to keep Xavi from speaking by drowning out any attempts by the other man. “Don’t, please don’t. They were torturing him and they’ll kill him, and he wasn’t—he didn’t do anything to me at all. Please don’t, don’t—”

“Who?” Xavi asked. Harsh and sharp, easily cutting through David’s voice.

David fell silent, but startled into a gasp when a rough voice answered Xavi. “González,” Villa said. “You…you’re from Catalonia, aren’t you?”

“Please just let me get him out,” David said, clutching at Xavi’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything but that. I—just please, please don’t tell them. I don’t want him to die, Xavi. _Please_.”

Xavi only glanced at Villa, when Villa spoke to him, and then his gaze never left David’s face. His brows twitched a few times as he listened to David, but otherwise his expression was unreadable. “You can’t get him out on your own.”

“I don’t—look, you don’t have to help me. You just don’t have to tell anybody you saw me.”

“But they would catch you with him, and then…” Something flickered through Xavi’s eyes, too quickly for David to understand. His brow creased and he lifted his hand to touch David’s hand on his shoulder. It lingered for a moment, and then Xavi pushed David’s hand off and back. He glanced at Villa again, then swept his gaze about the room. “Empty out one of those bags. I’m going out to check the hall, and then I’ll be back to help carry him.”

For a moment David didn’t believe him, and stayed in place to stare at Xavi. And Xavi’s mouth did tighten, as if he was going to take back his promise, but instead he shook his head. An odd twist, wry or maybe sad, came to his mouth. “Also, you need to get out of the way, or I can’t go out.”

David opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he stepped to the side, but as Xavi passed him, he put out his hand and touched the man’s arm. “Thank you.”

Xavi didn’t slow or turn around. He went to the door and looked out, like he said, and then came back and dragged out a large bag of nuts without reprimanding David for not doing so. “My lord is Don Josep Guardiola,” he said quietly. “He will offer you at least temporary sanctuary, but first we have to get you to his rooms.”

He was addressing Villa—David spun around to see Villa reluctantly nod, then dropped down beside the other man. Villa’s gaze went to him. “Why—”

“Not now,” David said quietly. “First, Guardiola’s rooms. Then I’ll get you a doctor.”

* * *

“…a little awkward. Cannavaro and I both answer to Ferdinand, that is true. But we don’t necessarily answer to each other, and of course Catalan and Neapolitan interests aren’t identical.”

David turned his head back and forth, trying to rid himself of the hazy shapes slowly moving across the ceiling. His mouth was open, and gradually he felt the air scratching through it, over his teeth and past his parched lips. Then he heard it, the sound cresting as a dull roar before fading back into an ordinary, if hoarse, rasp. He blinked and the shadows encroached so they nearly covered him, then receded as he made himself twist onto his side. Sharp pains sliced up and down his body so that he dropped hard onto his forearm, gasping.

“…no, he’ll heal. They’re all…bad, but they’re not crippling injuries, and I could clean them when they were still fresh. Probably he’ll only scar here and there,” someone was saying. Not the one who’d spoken at first, but the pair of them were standing in the same place. “Well, as a doctor I couldn’t refuse, but…I have a responsibility to the man I’m serving, too.”

“Oh, I understand. And I fully intend to—actually, would you mind if I came with you? I’m not needed elsewhere, and considering how delicate this could be, I’d like to make it clear as soon as possible to Don Fabio what part I have in this.” The first man was Catalan. He was sympathetic but dismissive in a way only great nobles were, since they could afford the superfluous show of emotion. “Are you leaving now?”

Footsteps came towards David, then hesitated as he moved a little. He was facing the wall, and for a moment he considered turning over, but then a burst of pain unexpectedly turned his guts to liquid. So instead he clenched in on himself, breathing through gritted teeth—the pain eventually diminished, and much to his surprise, localized itself in his ankle.

“I think they might have sprained your ankle when they were carrying you in. They had some difficulty on the staircase,” said the second voice after a moment. A shadow fell over David and something touched his shoulder, but it immediately withdrew when he jerked away. “Please don’t try to move it.”

“I don’t remember that,” David muttered, slowly pulling his hands from his thigh, which he’d gripped in an attempt to distract himself. He had to let them rest on the bed for a moment, but when he had the breath, he pushed down on his arm and rolled over.

The man to whom David had been speaking had moved off a little to stand over a table that was overflowing with bowls of bloody water, stained clothes and various bottles and tins. He was very tall and pale, and by now David had more than a good idea that he was the rumored Swiss-Italian that Cannavaro kept as a doctor. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, but they were liberally reddened with blood, and he had more blood under his nails.

He wasn’t looking at David, but he started at David’s movement as if he had. Then he breathed in deeply and began to pick at the objects on the table, apparently tidying up. Past him, in the doorway, was the back of another man, who was addressing someone in the next room. David was in some sort of…he looked at the bare walls, then glanced to the left and found himself across from an elaborate confection of wood and silver, which was topped off with a heavy cross encrusted with precious stones. So he was in Guardiola’s private oratory.

“You passed out somewhere around the…” Silva looked from David to the doctor, then pushed his hand against his face, tired and embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Did you just come back?” the doctor asked. In his nervousness, he’d dropped a bottle, but his reflexes were good enough so that he’d got the other hand beneath it without having to stoop. After a glance at it, he carefully set it into something on his far side, then reached for another bottle. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Shrugging, Silva worked his way past the table till he was standing at the end of the cot. He put his arm over the bar footing it and the tips of his hand’s shadow just touched David’s forehead. “I talked one of the others into taking my duties for the night. Philippe? I came in about when you were asking Don Josep about your…I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

“I didn’t know who you wanted me to see, but I don’t blame you. You went for a doctor when you thought you needed one, and that was natural enough,” the doctor said neutrally. He sorted more bottles into what was probably his carrying-case, then paused with his hands resting lightly on the table. His shoulders moved back and forth, as if throwing off a strain, and then he looked up. “I do have some explaining to do to Signore Cannavaro. But I understand why you acted how you did.”

Silva looked down, his teeth showing as they sank into his lower lip. Then they vanished as he rubbed at his mouth; one of his nails left a red streak as it scratched over his cheek and back. “It’s just that—”

“It’s as good a reason as any to get me. Better than some.” The doctor put away another bottle, then closed his case and did up the latches without looking down. Instead he kept his gaze on Silva as a faint, oddly wry smile curled at his lips. “I did know who he was—” a nod towards David “—when I saw him. I could have left then. If you had any responsibility towards me, then it ended when I decided to stay, and do something.”

“I know, but…” Except Silva clearly didn’t know, and was too upset to listen closely to what the doctor was saying. His eyes flicked up and down, and his hand wrapped around the bedstead till the wood began to creak. “You’re still…but do you…”

“No,” the doctor said bluntly. He paused, his brows rising slightly, and then he sighed and put his palms flat against the case. “David. Listen. I could have a serious problem over this, and honestly, I am worried. But let me do that. It’s my worry, and my…it’s not a great burden that I need to share. No, I’m not—I’m not trying to fool you. I was a soldier, and I—I know about facing dangers.”

“But that just means you’re brave. It doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t worry,” Silva said, stepping forward. The words burst from him as if a blister had broken, but the pain in his expression showed that he’d gained no relief from the release. “Just because you’re used to this doesn’t mean—”

David thought he should interrupt, and he did try, but his throat gave out and all that came out was a wheeze. Silva looked sharply at him; the doctor started to, but then he shook himself. He picked up his case, drawing Silva’s eyes back to him, then shook his head. “It’s not because I’m used to it. It’s because…because I’ve seen this before. Not _this_ , but this…reason, your reason for acting. And I didn’t stay then, and I’ve always regretted it.”

Apparently this was a conversation they’d had before, since it puzzled Silva enough for some of the guilt to drain from his face. He lifted his hand and opened his mouth, then put his hand back on the bed. His eyes went to the floor, to David—to the doctor, asking eloquently what Silva didn’t seem to be able to ask with his voice.

“There was a very great lady I met once. She was in…well, it was complicated.” The doctor smiled, his eyes turning distant. Regret was in the smile, and so was humor and another kind of warmth. “She was married, for one thing. And her husband—he was very honorable. I wanted to help him, too. To help both of them, and I did for a while. But it was so…I didn’t understand what they were doing. I thought they were only inviting more trouble and I thought it was worse to watch her…watch them suffer. I’m a doctor, I heal people. If they continue to injure themselves—deliberately—then am I of any use?”

Guardiola was no longer in the doorway, David saw. Other people were moving about in the next room, but none appeared to be listening to them. Not that he believed that, given that Guardiola’s private chambers were still at court.

“Except that’s the wrong way to look at it. Medicine isn’t about pain, but about health. And what they were doing wasn’t about pain either. But they were in pain, and I could have helped with that, at least. I—but I left, when I should have stayed. I could have done more.” After a moment, the doctor turned away. He glanced at his clothes, a faint grimace of distaste passing over his face, and then hefted the case under his arm. Then he turned to Silva again. “I saw I could do something here, so I did it. Signore Cannavaro understood that when he hired me—I don’t know as that he’ll be pleased about it right now, but I’m satisfied.”

The doctor turned back and went to the door. He paused there, but then went into the next room and shut the door behind him when someone called out to him. Some muffled talk occurred, but the door remained undisturbed.

“I don’t—” David’s voice threatened to break and he had to choke himself through it “—know…if they told you, but I was breaking into Cannavaro’s rooms. I didn’t end up in that cellar because I was innocent. A little stupid, yes, but I’m not going to claim what I don’t have.”

Silva started. His hand flew off the bedstead and his shoulders hunched, and David would have confessed again, in as many chances as he might be given, but for a moment David did regret being given a chance to hope.

Then Silva turned, and bent a look on David that had exasperation and sadness, but no surprise. The other man put his hand back on the bed, then twisted sideways to slide himself between the table and the bed. Once he was through the narrow space, he seated himself on the cot: his back was to David, but he’d moved down far enough so that David could coil about and see his face.

“I knew you were in trouble when Fernando warned us all about you. He doesn’t do that very often,” Silva sighed, folding his hands into his lap. He glanced at David, then lifted his chin and stared at the far wall. “And you _did_ try to ask me to get you in to see Queen Isabella. I didn’t know about trying to attack Cannavaro, but I could have guessed.”

David winced, then frowned as he pressed his face into the pillow. That meeting hadn’t been that long ago, and at the time he’d seen nothing wrong with…at least, he’d thought he’d seen nothing wrong with pressuring Silva on the point. Since then he’d—had no time to think, given the botched robbery and then being tied to that chair, but somehow he felt differently now. And the whipping hadn’t done it: pain wasn’t something David enjoyed, but he knew it well enough so that it didn’t have much sway with him. At most it’d merely pointed out, in a way he couldn’t ignore so easily, something he’d already known.

“I wasn’t attacking Cannavaro. I just needed…well, it doesn’t really matter now,” David muttered. He shifted his arm, closed his eyes against the sudden burning in it, and then shifted it again, so it was out from under his body. The pain flared brutally up before it diminished to less than the ache with which he’d started. “It was stupid. That damn Milanese snake—he even _looks_ like one.”

Silva looked at his hands. The side of his mouth twitched. “You know, _I’m_ a little interested even if it was stupid. If only so I know exactly what Don Josep and Xavi are talking about out there.”

An unfamiliar, uncomfortable prickling started up in David’s face and throat. He moved his head a few times to try and rid himself with it, then laid down again as he began to run out of breath. “It was—it was stupid. It wasn’t even going to do anything. I didn’t think it’d do anything. I don’t think that Milanese bastard did either.”

“Well, then why did you bother?”

“Because I couldn’t do anything else, all right? I was—I’m going to lose what’s left of my land, and there I honestly didn’t do anything to deserve it. I just dreamed too much, and González and the rest of this damn court didn’t find it fancy enough or something like that, and so they half-ruined me. And the way the world is, you can only go down from that, but if I was going to be fully ruined, then at least I was going to have earned it,” David snapped. He should have paused somewhere in the middle for breath, but his ire wouldn’t allow that and so he finished on an angry gasp, the last word a sliver of rage.

He was already lying down, but he felt so drained that it seemed he’d fallen back a second time. His eyes closed of their own accord; when David realized he’d done that, he struggled to open them again. He wanted to see Silva’s reaction.

But he was disappointed. The other man had his head tipped down, too far for David to make out his expression. His lashes were drawn down so low that only a gleam of his eye was visible, and on his lap, his hands were motionless and apparently free of tension. And he remained that way for a long time, long past when David, with all his pains from his injuries and sudden time to think, had to move again.

David scratched at his nose. Or tried to: his hands were heavily bandaged, including the fingertips, and finally he had to settle for the rough cloth of the bandages. “Why?”

Silva stirred. He looked uncomprehendingly at David.

“You got the damn doctor. You got _Guardiola_. So why…you said you’d tell me now.” The whining note in David’s voice made him grimace, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “What, do you like me now?”

“Like you?” Silva repeated incredulously. “When you—when you’re not blinded by your temper, you’re taking it out on me and anyone else. You’re bitter and you’re too angry, and it’s like you never _think_ when you do something. Except when you think the best way to defend me is to get yourself condemned for sodomy on top of everything else, and…why, yes, I like you. I don’t really know you, and what I do know of you isn’t very nice, but I like you.”

“I’m not—” Dropping his eyes, David stared for a while at Silva’s side. He pressed his lips together when the other man moved his hands back, putting them on the cot and letting the left one come down only inches from David’s face. Then he turned his head into the mattress. “I know I didn’t deserve to be saved by you, all right? I didn’t ask you to do _that_.”

He exhaled heavily, watching the sheets flutter under the stream of air. Then he frowned, and moved his head. But the faint graze didn’t vanish—on the contrary, it turned into a fingertip laying against his jaw.

After a few moments, David needed to breathe again but he waited, and when he finally did take a breath, he was bracing himself. But he didn’t lose that touch, and so he finally turned his head. Silva was leaning over him, one hand hovering over David’s jaw, and as David looked up, that hand slowly settled more of itself against David’s cheek. It was a slender little thing, but it had remnants of calluses on its fingertips and palm that rasped against David’s bandages as he brought up his hand, slowly wrapping it around Silva’s wrist.

“I suppose that’s all the thanks I’ll be get—” Silva started, too sarcastic. But his voice disappeared when David pulled down his hand and kissed one of its fingertips. His mouth remained parted, and it opened a little further as David kissed another fingertip, letting David see how the red underside of the lips blended into the blackness of the inside of the mouth.

David pushed himself up, ignoring his aching body, till he could bend over Silva’s hand. He turned his head and pushed it against his face, letting his cheek curl down its fingers, and then he pressed his mouth over Silva’s knuckles, one by one. He let them shape his lips, then kissed the back of Silva’s hand. Then he dragged himself further over, till he had his brow resting against the back of Silva’s forearm, and Silva’s knuckles just resting against his throat.

“I didn’t deserve it,” he said again, very softly. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do with what I don’t deserve. It’s not a lesson I ever learned, and I…I don’t…”

“I don’t even know you.” Silva spoke just as softly, as softly as his hands when they cradled David’s head. He helped David sit up, then cupped the side of David’s jaw with one hand while with the other, he touched David’s cheek, temple. His eyes were dark and wondering. “I don’t know—I just thought that the thought of you dying was the most horrible thing I’ve ever known.”

When David bowed his head, it was without any resentment. He lingered in the curve of Silva’s hand for a moment, then twisted slightly and pressed his lips to the fleshy mound just beneath the thumb. He still had a loose grip on that wrist and he pulled at it, and when Silva came close enough, David moved his hand to Silva’s shoulder. His fingers slipped back into Silva’s hair, the short stiff strands teasing past the thick bandages, and he pressed his mouth to Silva’s mouth.

It hurt his swollen lips. He ignored that and bore down harder on the other man. Silva kept one hand on David’s jaw, but moved the other to David’s waist. Then to his back and David flinched, not having realized till then that he was naked save for his bandages. He made himself settle and pulled harder at Silva’s head; Silva jerked against it, then suddenly parted his lips. His tongue passed over David’s lower lip before David had half-appreciated the simple _heat_ inside Silva’s mouth, then flicked away as David thrust his own tongue after it. He pushed his hand across the back of Silva’s head and Silva dropped his hand from David’s jaw onto a lash-mark on David’s shoulder.

David hissed and wrenched away to the left, grabbing at his shoulder. Then he seized at a fold of Silva’s shirt, wanting the other man to _stay_ —Silva stiffened, then put careful hands on David’s waist. After a moment, he smoothed them up David’s back till David, still breathing hard, had to bend under their light pressure. His head came to rest on Silva’s shoulder, and then he relaxed.

“I’m glad you don’t hate me,” David muttered when his breath was back. He felt Silva turn rigid again and suppressed a grimace, then cautiously put one hand against Silva’s side. When Silva sighed and wrapped his arms around David, David put his other hand on Silva’s thigh. “I’m grateful. I’m—thank you. Thank you for not hating me, even with all that…that I am.”

Silva sighed again. His breath skated over David’s nape, and then his mouth brushed over a bump of David’s spine. “I love you. That’s why.”

David stiffened. His hands flexed so his nails dug into Silva’s flesh, but the other man didn’t so much as flinch.

“And I don’t care if you think there’s some good in inviting people to kill you. I don’t want you to die. I didn’t go through all this trouble just for you to—to be that _stupid_. Even if that’s part of you,” Silva went on, agitation coming and going in his voice. His shoulder slumped under David’s ear as he exhaled heavily, sounding tired again. He kissed the back of David’s neck again. “I think you’ll have to leave. I’m not—I didn’t come here thinking life is a pretty fireside tale and everything ends well. My home, it’s so beautiful it makes your heart weep, but we’re always at war and even when we aren’t, we fight just to have enough food to be able to wake the next day. So I don’t think life is something to throw away when you get too impatient with it. So I want you to _live_.”

“I want you with me,” David finally said, voice thick. “I’ve lost my land, my plans. I threw them away, I can see that now. But you—I haven’t yet—”

“I’m serving the Queen. I have to stay till she doesn’t need me.” After taking his arms from around David, Silva pushed gently at David’s hands till David let him go. But then he put his hands around David’s face, and gazed steadily and determinedly at David. “First, don’t die— _don’t_ , all right? If you die, then you’ve lost me. First you live.”

David raised his hand to Silva’s face. It was shaking—he looked at it, then put it, still shaking, against Silva’s cheek. And the shaking left it, melted away in the warmth of the man—the _life_ of him.

“Then you wait,” David said lowly. The words were awkward on his tongue—he’d never said them before, never believed he’d needed to. If one couldn’t come with him, then he couldn’t afford to slow or go back, but now he saw the foolishness in that. The losses—not again. He breathed in deeply, and then spoke with all the firmness the words deserved. “Wait. Wait for me.”

“I would even if you died. But—” Silva smiled, and the smile squeezed at his eyes so a little wetness came from their corners “—it’d be better if you didn’t.”

“Then I won’t.” And David meant it as a vow, and took it to him as one. But then he cupped Silva’s face and drew the man to him again, because now, suddenly, he had his wants and his loves, and he could have them for a little while yet. A little while.

* * *

The door swung just shy of its frame. Then it slammed shut, and as the dust settled, Raúl slowly stood back. He glanced down at his foot, then dismissed its ache and turned around to stare at his desk.

“You shouldn’t be quite so hard on Iker.”

After he’d flinched, Raúl took a deep breath and reset his shoulders. He breathed again, then turned to face Fernando. The other man was still slumped into the chair he’d taken when they’d come into the room, pressing a wet rag to the back of his head. His legs were stretched out and he had leaned back to rest his raised arm against the wall, so he looked almost bemused.

“He did what you told him, and most of his fault is in picking the wrong men to do it. But they’re all from your family households, so…” Fernando shrugged, looking to the right. His brow furrowed as he rubbed at his head, and then he took down the rag, spreading it out over his hand. “At any rate, he’s had it from me and you, and he already wants to toss himself off the roof. I think making him dispose of those men will be a sufficient punishment.”

“Yes,” Raúl said after a moment. He looked at his desk, then started towards it only to change his mind. Instead he went to the bed, and after turning his back to it, leaned against one of its posts.

“He’s still a good man, and a loyal servant,” Fernando added. His apparent good humor entirely faded by the time he was done, leaving his voice a mere shell of itself. And his eyes—

—Raúl twisted away, then jerked himself off the post, remembering the last time they’d…the last time he and Fernando had been alone together in this room. For a moment he wanted to break something. The door, perhaps.

Instead he wrapped his arms around himself and stood off from the bed. He pursed his lips, then bowed to necessity; for all his discomfort, it was nothing compared to the dishonor his whole line would suffer if they didn’t act quickly and wisely. “You honestly think it was Silva?”

“No, I…well, no, but I can’t think of who else it might be. He doesn’t like Villa, but he saw how badly-off Villa was and he seems rather gentle-natured, considering he’s from a colony.” Fernando pinched the edges of the rag between his fingers and pulled it out, then slapped it into one hand. Then he sighed, absently rubbing at the back of his head. “Of course, if it was him, then he did hit me extremely hard.”

“This is not a time to be joking,” Raúl said acidly.

The other man’s head whipped up and his eyes were boiling. He lowered his head almost immediately, but the stiff stance of Fernando’s shoulders said it wasn’t because he had calmed. “I know. Not when you’ve sanctioned the kidnapping and torture of another noble, and whatever you think of David, he is that—”

“I did no such thing. I sanctioned Iker to stop him as he was in the act of committing treachery and espionage on Cannavaro, who is a subject of King Ferdinand and who I’m therefore bound to protect as a servant of the Catholic Kings. And as Isabella can’t tolerate disturbances in her condition, I asked Iker to—”

“For the love of the Virgin, Raúl. If you wanted me to suffer in that way, all you had to do was exile me again,” Fernando snapped.

Raúl stared at him.

At first Fernando had his head up, presenting the hard line of his jaw and the flash of his eyes to Raúl, but as the silence stretched on, the other man gradually sank back into his chair. He lifted his hand and worked his mouth, then exhaled in disbelief and dropped his arm, looking off to the side. Then he glanced back at Raúl, comprehension slowly creeping over his face, and a painful fear began to come into his eyes.

“I thought Villa was a danger because he was going so far as to seek out Inzaghi for aid and I don’t think Milan sent Inzaghi here to see to our well-being. I didn’t—if anything, I was trying to forget you and he had ever had a history,” Raúl finally said. He briefly closed his eyes, then pressed his fingers to the side of his head. “It was easier if I pretended you wouldn’t care what I did with him.”

“Why would—”

“Because I have _never_ wanted you to suffer. Not even—I didn’t send you into exile either.” Rubbing his temple did nothing to alleviate the sudden ache in Raúl’s head, so he turned around so he was facing away from the window, into the quieter dark of the room. Then he went to the bed again and leaned over it, resting his arms on top of it as he covered his face with his hands. “There were rumors about us and I was about to be married so everyone was paying much more attention to who I spent time with. I sent you away so you wouldn’t end up being charged with unnatural lusts by my enemies. I thought you knew that.”

The chair creaked, then released a long groan as feet scuffled uncertainly towards Raúl. They stopped about a yard away. “I…knew you were getting married, and you needed to be more careful about your reputation. So I thought…and I thought I understood it—I did understand that. But it still hurt, for you to toss me away that easily, and I…”

“I didn’t want to see you tortured in a public square,” Raúl snapped. He pressed his face further into his hands, digging at his brows with his nails. “When you came back, you didn’t seem to blame me. I thought you understood what I was doing. You were so happy.”

“Because you’d called me back. I wasn’t sure if you would, and when you did, I—I discovered I would still do anything for you. But…” Fernando’s voice came a little nearer “…but no, I didn’t understand. Not the way you wished me to.”

Raúl’s chest tightened, then began to ache like his head did. It became difficult simply to breathe, and he thought perhaps he shouldn’t…no, he should. He had to. “Is that why you took up with Villa in the first place?”

“I was upset—”

“Fernando,” Raúl exhaled.

After another moment, the bed to Raúl’s left sank a little. He looked over and Fernando stared somberly back at him, then turned to put his hands behind him, on the mattress. “Yes. He…he’d been opposed to your family for a while, and he was a friendly ear for my complaints. But—I did come to like the man very much, for more than that. I didn’t think you would have me back. I was angry and I don’t like being angry, and he…he made me less so, for a little while.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Raúl smiled humorlessly at Fernando’s surprised look, then pulled his hands from his face. He continued to press one hand against his temple, but he let the other wander idly over the mattress. “I thought you’d lost your taste for me, and found him better. I won’t lie, at first I was so—hurt, because I had to pay a lot to send you there and then to bring you back. But then I wondered why you had come back, if he did suit you better…perhaps because you thought you owed me, and you’ve been acting this whole time.”

“No,” Fernando breathed.

But once he’d begun, Raúl had to see the line of thought through to the end. He’d been trying not to, these past few days, wanting to at least believe the years after Fernando had returned hadn’t been a lie. Wanting at least his illusion that he did have one love which his family hadn’t made grow for him, which he’d gotten on his own merits. “I don’t want you to suffer. If you are happier elsewhere, then I won’t hold you to me.”

“No.” Fernando put his hand on Raúl’s shoulder, then shook Raúl. Then he pulled Raúl up by the arm as if Raúl wasn’t already turning towards him, his grip suddenly hard and desperate. He stared down at Raúl, his eyes frantically crossing back and forth over Raúl’s face. “No. No, listen to me, I came back because I liked David but I only liked him. You—my life, my love, my faith—it all belongs to you. I could never give any of that to anyone else. They’re not mine to _give_ now, do you understand? Because—”

As wild as his tone was, his lips stopped almost before Raúl laid his fingers against them. But only they ceased to move; air whistled harshly through Raúl’s fingers as Fernando inhaled sharply. His fingers flexed over Raúl’s arm, and then a shudder went through his whole body. And after it, like the softer rains that followed the thunderclouds, Fernando folded against Raúl. He pushed his arms around Raúl’s back and as Raúl put trembling hands against the man’s sides, Fernando buried his face in the curve of Raúl’s neck.

Raúl breathed out till his lungs ached. Then he closed his eyes as well and breathed slowly in, leaning his head against Fernando’s.

“I wish you _had_ asked about those stories about Villa and me,” Fernando said, lifting his head. He straightened without moving back, his fingers clenching and unclenching in the folds of Raúl’s clothing. “Or that I had said something, asked you why I was leaving—”

“I should have told you,” Raúl told him quietly. “I shouldn’t have thought you’d guess.”

“But perhaps I should have. I could have. I know you, and…oh, but I don’t know you. I don’t know you well enough, and I’ve done so badly by you because of it, and tell me you don’t care and I’ll be content.” Fernando brought up his hand and stroked the side of Raúl’s face, smiling with pained eyes. He ducked his head and kissed Raúl’s temple, jaw, and lips, and then straightened again. “Forgive me. Tell me you forgive me.”

The vise about Raúl’s chest squeezed again. “I didn’t blame you in the first place, Fernando. And with the errors I made, please for—”

Fernando kissed him on the mouth again, long and crushing, hands cupped around Raúl’s face so nothing of it, not breath or heat, could escape. And Raúl wouldn’t have wanted anything to have left—he put up his hands, twisting them in the other man’s hair, and if their arms had been the cage that encircled their lives, then he would have found freedom a pittance to pay for it.

But it was not. Breath went first, as their bodies demanded air, and then the cooler drafts of the room came between them as they parted. And on its heels came memory: they were not here to reconcile with each other, much as Raúl cherished that. They were here to discuss the potentially horrific misstep Raúl had allowed Iker to make.

“Did you ever intend to kill him?” Fernando asked. His hands still held Raúl with unnatural strength, but he was intelligent enough to see where Raúl’s thoughts were heading, and brave enough to breach the silence they had brought. “I’m not…if you did, I would see the reason in it, even if I don’t…”

“No.” Raúl felt his brows arch and snorted. “No, actually. He does still have his blood and rank, and I respect those. I did want to speak to him about Inzaghi, in private—and I did want him taken in the act, because I thought it’d make him more likely to speak. I don’t know what measures might have been necessary for that, but death wouldn’t have been one. Fernando, I’d need him alive to prove anything against Inzaghi.”

Relief spread over Fernando’s face, then disappeared as he studied Raúl. He brushed the hair from Raúl’s eyes, his mouth twisting a little. “I should have thought better of you just now, too. And I’m sorry, but I am glad for David. He’s not someone I wish ill of.”

“Are you glad? Because things have changed. I regret that Iker didn’t understand my instructions, but I have to deal with what _has_ happened and…it seems hard to see why Villa would want to cooperate with me now,” Raúl sighed. “Including not accusing me of…not now.”

The last part was towards the door, upon which someone had just knocked. They knocked again immediately after his reply, more forcefully and with a certain rhythm to it. After a glance towards Fernando, Raúl slipped around the other man and crossed the room to the door. He put his hand on the handle and took a deep breath to help suppress his irritation, then reluctantly opened it.

“I believe we have matters to discuss,” Inzaghi said. His heavy accent didn’t disguise the coldness to his tone.

“There certainly are matters, but the discussion, I think, is a little less suitable. Considering the—”

Inzaghi smiled, thin-lipped and icily amused, and it was enough to make Raúl stop. Then the other man glanced down at his hand, which held a leather packet of the type used to carry important documents. He tipped it slightly so that Raúl could see the seals of Aragon and of Naples on it, then sighed so that Raúl looked back at his face.

“No. I think we have a discussion. And I would suggest we have it now.” With that, Inzaghi shouldered his way into the room, leaving Raúl no choice but to shut the door behind the man.

* * *

Xavi quietly closed the door behind himself, then looked up. Across the room, Villa had just pulled himself into a sitting position and was still grimacing from the effort. Someone had given him a shirt that was far too big, its collar allowing nearly all of his left shoulder to show, and the remains of a meal were on the table near him.

“David already left,” Villa said.

It was a moment before Xavi believed himself capable of speaking without betraying himself. “I know. Don Josep is speaking to Don Raúl right now.”

Villa blinked and glanced down at the bed. He put out his hand and picked at something on the sheets, his lips twitching as if to pull back from his teeth. Then he snorted and did bare his teeth in a snarling sort of smile. “Well?”

“Silva’s to be spared,” Xavi said, with deliberate slowness.

The other man’s head came up sharply. He hadn’t been expecting that answer, that was clear—but then Villa’s shoulders sagged and his eyes widened. He searched Xavi’s face, his mouth working a little, and then he sank back against the wall. His eyes briefly wandered upward, then closed as he lifted a hand. After a tug at his nose, Villa raked his fingers back through his hair. He grimaced as his arm’s movement strained some injury, but it was little more than a reflex; no pain was in his eyes right then.

Xavi looked down at the ground. He watched the tip of his foot draw out a slow arc against the ground, then put his hand back as he felt his balance growing unsteady. When he felt the wall, he shifted his weight to lean against it. Then he rubbed at his chest, where the pain was. He looked up, at the cross hanging on the far wall, and the _senyera_ worked into the decorations below it. He had other loves, he reminded himself. “On condition of silence. And they cannot transfer him from the Queen’s Household without causing a scandal—she likes him too much, but I understand that Don Raúl will be taking a closer interest in him from now on.”

“Oh?” Villa said sharply. His arm swung down, then across his chest as he pulled himself away from the wall. His breathing hitched as he flinched, but then he shook his head, laughing. “Oh. Well, I wish Don Raúl luck with that. I don’t think that he’ll do it well, considering how he’s done by me.”

“It’s not about how he’s done by you,” Xavi couldn’t help remarking.

Villa’s eyes flicked to him, full of simmering rage. Then they narrowed, and at the same time the corners of Villa’s mouth drew back and up in a wolfish, grim smile. But when he spoke, his tone was oddly kind. “I have a backwards way with compliments, I’m told. I meant I think David can care for himself, and when he can’t, he will know who to ask. Considering how he’s done by himself so far.”

The past few hours more or less answered Villa’s implied challenge, so Xavi didn’t bother. He looked at Villa again, then turned around and reached for the door.

“You’ll be here.” When Xavi turned back around, Villa was no longer smiling. Nor was he looking at Xavi, but instead he seemed fascinated by a fold in the sheets over his lap, toying with it and pushing it about with a finger. “You will be. As you were earlier, when he asked you to help.”

It wasn’t a statement, though it sounded like one. A threat ran through it, and so did a plea, and the first made Xavi turn his back on the man and the second made him reply. “Yes,” he said. He put his hand over the door handle, crushed his fingers about the brass, and then slowly pulled open the door. “Yes, I will be. Now Don Raúl would like to speak with you about your choices.”

After stepping aside to let Don Raúl into the room, Xavi moved back and put his hand on the side of the door. He looked into the next room: Guardiola was standing by the bed, gripping the back of his neck and looking with frank disgust at someone, and in the corner, Andrés was staring worriedly at Xavi—Xavi turned sharply from that. Then he made to go through the doorway.

“Exile,” Don Raúl said without preamble, behind Xavi.

Villa snorted. It was a liquid sort of sound, curling its contempt like a whip. “Gran Canaria. It’s far enough, and I know Castile could use someone there who has blood instead of rose syrup in their veins.”

Xavi paused just long enough to hear Raúl’s reluctant assent, then shook his head and went out into the next room. He closed the door behind him.

“Thank you,” Guardiola said icily, making Xavi look sharply forward.

“Thank you for your time,” Inzaghi replied, polite but detached. He bowed, then walked out of the room.

When it became clear that Guardiola preferred to stand, Andrés quietly rose to get the still-open outer door. The movement seemed to stir something in Guardiola, as he finally jerked himself about and went to his desk, where he fingered a few things—paper, the inkwell—before abruptly throwing up his hands and swearing profusely.

Andrés started and stared, then hurriedly ducked into the antechamber, shutting the door behind him. Xavi glanced at the door to the oratory to be certain that it was completely shut, then cleared his throat.

“So everyone loses but Milan,” Guardiola said. He shook his head in disbelief, then turned around to face Xavi. “Oh, you didn’t hear—while we’ve all been distracted with Villa, Inzaghi somehow got hold of some of Cannavaro’s private papers.”

“But…Vieri. It had to have been him.” Grimacing, Xavi put up his hand and pressed his temple. “I think Iker was too busy to watch him, and I haven’t been doing so lately. He hasn’t been doing anything, but I’m sorry, I—”

“And Cannavaro is idiot enough to keep around papers about his bribery in the Vatican on Ferdinand’s behalf, so I had to _bargain_ with Inzaghi to get them back. My God, I wish I could just send Fabio up for trial, but we need him in Naples,” Guardiola continued, apparently not hearing Xavi. He swore again, then closed his eyes and tilted back his head. His hands came down to rest on the back of his chair, then squeezed the wood as Guardiola shook himself and opened his eyes. Then he looked round at Xavi, suddenly calm again. “It doesn’t affect the arrangement with Raúl. Villa is still exiled, and Silva is still safe.”

Xavi cautiously nodded. When several moments had passed without another explosion, he came across the room so he wouldn’t have to speak so loudly for Guardiola to hear him; the oratory door was thick, but was hardly impenetrable. “But this means we’ve only leverage against Raúl. Inzaghi was responsible for inciting Villa in the first place, but—”

“No, not even against Raúl. What we have is counterbalanced by what Inzaghi’s showed him of Cannavaro’s papers. And as for Inzaghi, we have nothing.” Guardiola glanced away, scowling. But then his mouth abruptly curved upwards and he laughed, his eyes glittering humorlessly. “If we mention he had someone break into Fabio’s rooms, then he’ll mention what he got there. And he wanted something of Fabio as well, but it’s nothing to do with us and so I’ll not think about it. I _still_ haven’t heard Inzaghi’s official proposals, and if they’re even an eighth as convoluted as what he’s done so far…”

“Well, now we know a little better what to expect from him,” Xavi said.

He’d meant to be reassuring, but instead he provoked the other man into pivoting hard to look at him. At times Guardiola could seem far more imposing than his over-lean frame could honestly support, and he seemed so now, leaning so far forward that by rights he should have fell on Xavi, like a boulder crashing down a hill. His eyes effortlessly pierced through Xavi.

But then Guardiola sighed and stepped back, and he was a man again. A great one, but a man: tired and frustrated, and oddly sad as well. “Xavi, it’s about time you went home,” he said, his quiet tone belying the shock his words carried. Guardiola paused, head tilted, before he smiled with shadowed amusement. “You’re far too old to be still dancing attendance on me. I should be finding you a wife, actually. Or at least letting you tend to your own lands.”

“Don—Pep, please, if I’ve erred that—”

“No, you haven’t. On the contrary, I don’t know what I’ll do without you. That isn’t to say that Andrés and Cesc aren’t wonderful, but…well, never mind. It’ll be a while yet and we have time to discuss that when we come to it,” Guardiola muttered, turning away. He put his right hand down on his desk, then brushed aside a sheet of paper to rest his fingers on the wood beneath it. “Isabella won’t last the month. And when she dies…Ferdinand’s had too much of Castile for too long. He won’t want to give it up to Juana and Philip, and this long peace we’ve had will disappear. You should have a little of it before Ferdinand calls us to war.”

For a while Xavi didn’t speak. He looked at the oratory door, and then somewhere else. Then he sighed, and nodded.

“I know you think you’re better off here, where at least you can provide some service, and maybe distract yourself. But distraction is a mistake, and a habit you shouldn’t acquire. It makes you more careless with yourself and with others, and it makes you forget why you value what you do.” Guardiola’s voice grew a little louder, and when Xavi looked up, the man was standing immediately in front of him. A smile touched Guardiola’s lips as Xavi started, and then it broadened a little to show fondness—and perhaps an old pain, with the darkness at the back of Guardiola’s eyes—as Guardiola put his hands up to cup Xavi’s face. “Go back to Barcelona. It’s home, you know it, and it’ll help when you think through the hurt. And you should. Think about it, so you remember why you risked it in the first place.”

“You’re not telling me to be happy,” Xavi said after a moment. His mouth hurt: he was smiling himself, though he felt no warmth inside of himself.

Guardiola sighed through his smile, then bent over to kiss Xavi’s brow. Then he turned away, one hand ruffling over the top of Xavi’s head. “You’re too old, Xavi. All I can do these days is send you—”

“—home.” Xavi took a deep breath, and when he released it, a little of the pain in his chest went with it. Not much, but enough for him to notice and perhaps mull over, when he could. “I—Pep. Don Josep. Thank you.”

“Wait till you are leaving for that. Right now I still need you,” the other man snorted. He absently brushed at his shirt, then looked up as the oratory door opened and Don Raúl came out.

As the two of them began to speak, Xavi quietly crossed the room and opened the door to the antechamber. He paused upon seeing Casillas immediately outside, and then again when he saw how pale and haggard the other man looked. Casillas began to address Xavi, but then stopped himself, his eyes flicking past Xavi.

When Xavi turned, the voices behind him lowered, then fell silent. Both Don Raúl and Guardiola were looking at Casillas: Guardiola with ill-suppressed irritation and Don Raúl with surprise that rapidly melted into pensiveness. Xavi looked at Casillas and found the other man staring at the floor.

“Iker?” Don Raúl said. He hesitated, then took a half-step forward. “Did you need to speak to me?”

Casillas lifted his head rather sharply, then attempted to grimace away his astonishment. He didn’t succeed, and he also seemed to forget Xavi was present, but as he went into the room, he seemed to stand a little straighter. “I’m sorry, Don Raúl, Don Josep, but I do.”

As Guardiola didn’t call Xavi back, Xavi went into the antechamber and shut the door behind him. Then he turned around to see Andrés huddled on the cot in the corner, his legs looking strangely elongated. After looking more closely, Xavi realized that the extra length was due to Cesc lying down behind Andrés.

“He’s sleeping. Sleeping through _this_.” Andrés’ voice shook a little, for all its indignation. “When he complains about missing all the excitement, I think I’m going to suggest he…oh, I don’t know…Xavi.”

After a moment, Xavi finished seating himself beside Andrés. “Yes?”

“I heard…Don Josep said…Xavi?” Andrés asked, voice thinning to a whisper.

He’d only half-turned when Xavi put his arm around the other man. At first Andrés resisted, but at the second tug, he folded so suddenly against Xavi’s shoulder that Xavi couldn’t help a flinch. Fortunately Andrés didn’t seem to notice, and only let out a long, ragged breath as Xavi cradled him.

“You already know what to do. You’ve been teaching me lately,” Xavi said. He felt Andrés stiffen and shook his head, then squeezed the other man’s side. “No, I know it was only worry for me. But you shouldn’t be looking out for me anyway. You’ve got to look out for Don Josep now, and for Cesc.”

Andrés pushed at Xavi’s belly, then slipped his hand down to grasp Xavi’s free hand. He took another deep, shaking breath, and then he steadied. “I’ll try to not to embarrass you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Andrés. I’m not going to…” Xavi needed a little breath; he took it, and then closed his eyes “…to be here. I’ll be…home. Home.”

Home. He had other loves, Xavi remembered. And he had not forgotten them while he’d been here, so—he would not forget his loves here when he was there. He breathed again, freely, and tucked Andrés’ head under his chin.

* * *

“I’m only a doctor,” Philippe said.

“A good enough one so that Fabio tried to concede a cardinal before he’d give you up.” Inzaghi paused, then squeezed his eyes shut and put his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He held the position for several seconds, long enough for Philippe to consider offering the man a migraine cure, and then lowered the hand and looked up. Something had subtly shifted in his face—subtly, but with difficulty, judging by the way the lines of wear and age about his eyes and mouth suddenly came to Philippe’s attention. “A good enough one so that the Duke himself believes you’re the only one he needs. He says you’ve treated him before.”

Philippe flinched, then looked away. For all that Inzaghi seemed less a statue and more like a man, albeit a strange, toneless one, Inzaghi’s glance was still hard to bear. It seemed to observe every detail and then to memorize it, and in a way that was worse than if he’d judged what he saw as well. That was what Philippe was accustomed to, but instead Inzaghi measured and mapped, and filed it all away for some other, unknown purpose.

“A long time ago. It…” Philippe did have to raise his brows, surprised at his reckoning “…some fourteen years ago, the last I saw him. And he wasn’t a duke then—surely now he can afford someone better?”

“He says you did marvelously then. And not…not only in plying your trade.” For the first time Inzaghi showed a trace of discomfort, shifting from one foot to the other. His thin lips worked, then grimaced as his voice dropped so low Philippe almost couldn’t hear him. “There is a need for discretion, and also for…he says you were always honest, and he needs honesty right now.”

After the shock came a pain that wasn’t quite as dull as Philippe would have predicted, given the time that had passed and the history that had come before. Then recognition: doctoring taught one as much about certain words and phrases, and the tones in which they were said, as it did about health and illness. “I can’t cure the dying.”

Inzaghi winced hard enough for his composure to crack so badly he couldn’t immediately recover it. He looked at the table beside them for a moment, then swung his hard gaze back to Philippe. “That’s why he wants you. He knows—but he needs to slow it. He—there are matters that need to be finished, that need him. He doesn’t want you to work a miracle cure. We only—he only needs a little more time.”

“I heard a rumor, before we left Naples, that he’d coughed up blood at a dinner,” Philippe said bluntly. He watched Inzaghi wince again, then rubbed at his head. Then at his breast, for they both ached.

“Will you come? He wants it to be of your own free will—I’ve only done so much as I’ve had to in order to give you a choice, without other attachments to hinder you,” Inzaghi eventually replied.

Philippe touched his fingers to his temple again, then dropped them as he half-turned to stare at the wall. He wasn’t generally one for dark humor, but he was tempted to laugh a little at Inzaghi’s portrayal of the situation. From one mountaintop, Inzaghi was right, and from another, he’d freed Philippe to choose by making it impossible for Philippe to refuse to choose—to choose to do nothing. However Philippe went now, he’d have to go, and it was only a matter of where.

“The Duchess also would like very much for you to return.” Inzaghi spoke quietly, without any particular emphasis. “She still thinks very highly of you.”

“I thought I was free to make up my own mind,” Philippe said, half-snapping, half-laughing. He slewed back round and looked at Inzaghi, who showed no remorse or, frankly, anything else. Not that Philippe had expected a reaction to that—and not that he’d needed the jab to make up his mind. From his mountaintop, there hadn’t ever been a choice. “Well, when do I leave?”

Oddly, Inzaghi didn’t immediately reply. Then he seemed about to, but instead he dropped into a low bow, and held it while Philippe couldn’t quite stifle his startled exclamation. Eventually he did rise, but only to turn towards the door. “Thank you.”

“But—”

“I will send word later about the arrangements. Right now, I would think you’d need to pack,” Inzaghi said, and then he left.

Philippe stared at the empty space where the man had been for a long time. Till some faint noise jolted him out of it, and then he turned slowly to the table. He looked down on it, at the handful of his tools that was spread across it, and began to gather them up. But then he paused again. His mouth pained him and he rubbed at it before finally allowing the smile to come. It hurt him more, and he knew very well that that was only the beginning of the pain—and yet he wanted to smile. After such a long time, he wanted to go.

He would stay this time, he vowed.

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the Introduction for my list of historical resources.


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